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THE HEART OF SALOME 







THE HEART OF 
SALOME 


BY 

ALLEN RAYMOND 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 




COPYRIGHT, 1925 

By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

(incorporated) 


MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


Vail-Ballou Press, Inc. 
Bound by Boston Bookbinding Co. 
Cambridge, Massachusetts 


AUG 25 1925 


4 



©C1A8G4311 


T\ l 'y 


The characters in this story are imaginary and 
are not portraits of any living persons. 






THE HEART OF SALOME 


CHAPTER I 

It was five o’clock of a lovely Spring afternoon, and 
the sun was warm upon the clean, white sidewalks of 
the Champs Elysees, when the gliding marvel of Sir 
Humphrey Leinster’s town car swung into the 
Avenue from the Arc de Triomphe, and started to 
roll, proudly silent, down to the door of Claridge’s. 

The car was long as the cutter of a battleship, 
and its nickel and plate glass were as flecklessly 
polished. It was racy of line as a greyhound, but 
massive in bulk. A silver Bacchante danced upon 
its radiator cap, seeming to flee before it. A florid, 
fat chauffeur, dressed in livery, presided with the 
dignity of a jurist at its wheel. 

The automobile slid through the lesser traffic of 
the boulevard as some stately dowager would have 
moved through an assembly of scullery maids, 
haughty and sure. It passed from speed to immo¬ 
bility without a tremor or a perceptible motion from 


8 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


its director, immediately before the gold braided, war 
bemedalled functionary who stood all day before 
Claridge’s smart hostelry, to help make alighting 
pleasant for aristocracy. 

And, as with infinite deference, this veteran 
warrior drew open the door of Sir Humphrey’s car, 
it was revealed to passers-by that all the automobile’s 
splendour was only the simplest platinum setting for 
the jewel which it contained. 

Diane Mayfield was beautiful. The world ac¬ 
knowledged it, all the world that counted to her, 
London, Paris, the Riviera, St. Moritz and Rome, 
just as in her girlhood had her home city of Boston, 
in the United States. 

Hers was a beauty of face and form that would 
have shone in any age, in any circumstance, as 
peasant girl or princess, as indeed only recently the 
most successful portraits of the “Salon d’Hiver,” 
had shown. There were two of which she was the 
subject, both daring, both exquisite. 

One was that of a dancer, triumphant in an an¬ 
cient, degenerate, voluptuous court, standing with 
eyes aflame and sinuous arms outstretched to receive 
from the hairy arms of a hideous executioner a silver 
platter, bearing the severed head of a saint. The 
painting was by Galuppi, the Florentine, and it won 
the Grand Prix. Crowds stood about it by day. 
By night, in salons and cafes, all Paris buzzed with 
its praises. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


9 


The other was wrung from the agony of the war. 
It was by Bezanne, who before the war was a rustic 
poet in Avignon. His delicate spirit had been 
exposed too long to the ugliness of the Somme, so 
that now many said he was mad, but all agreed he 
was a genius with a brush. It was a picture of 
Death beckoning to a hero, a mystic figure with the 
face of a Madonna, but eyes that puzzled. Viewed 
from one angle they seemed to beckon with love and 
compassion; from another, to mock, to sneer, and to 
be-little. It was before this picture that young Juan 
Fernandez, the South American millionaire, one of 
“The Mayfield’s” suitors, had been found dead with 
a bullet in his brain one evening, an army auto¬ 
matic in his outflung hand, when attendants at 
closing time rushed to his prostrate side at the sound 
of a shot. 

Beautiful by nature, in figure and countenance, and 
groomed with all the art and science that the wealth 
of too-civilized women can command, Mrs. Mayfield 
stepped from the velvet shaded tonneau of Sir Hum¬ 
phrey’s Rolls-Royce with smiling self-assurance into 
the bright light of the world’s most beautiful high¬ 
way, and thence into competition with several of the 
world’s most beautiful women. 

“Merci,” she smiled to the doorman. 

Her tiny feet, revealed more than clad, in bronze 
sandal-slippers, with jewels at in-step strap, pattered 
across the pavement. Her slender ankles, sheathed 


io 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


in filmiest gold, flashed in the sun beneath the 
rippling, mahogany-chestnut mass of her sable cape, 
hung negligently low upon her shoulders, but 
clasped so tightly to her as she swept to the hotel 
door, that it accentuated rather than blurred the lines 
of the body it enveloped. A little Oriental turban 
of gold, devoid of ornament, contained the glory of 
her chestnut hair. And her jade green eyes, almost 
almond shaped, were aglow with the reflection of 
flames in the woman’s soul they mirrored. 

She whirled through the swinging door and across 
Bokharan rugs to the fauteuil, where the lean, long 
figure of the Hon. Hubert Mainwaring was sprawling 
wearily, one leg draped carelessly over his malacca 
stick. He was wearing a perfect, Bond-street morn¬ 
ing coat and an air of infinite ennui. 

“Am I late?” 

The Gothic figure unwound itself and stood tower¬ 
ing over her. “Damnably late. Two whisky-sodas, 
two strolls, and three pretty women late. That’s a 
beastly long time.” 

“I’m sorry.” There was penitence of no con¬ 
sequence in her tone. Her eyes surveyed the tables 
of the tea room in the sunken garden near by. There 
was no one of importance there, and at last she turned 
to her companion. “Is it worth it?” 

“You are perfect.” 

Her white hand fluttered to rest upon his arm for 
one swift instant of friendship, of feminine depend- 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


11 


ence, of flattery to his strength. “I think I'd like 
to dance, if you’ll take me.” 

They moved down the hall of mirrors, noiselessly 
sinking in velvet, toward the dancing. 

There was the usual clattering crowd at the danc¬ 
ing, too many tables, too close together, too little 
floor space, and two bands, one American and one 
Argentine, working alternately without interval, 
where one would have sufficed. 

“Ghastly,” Mr. Mainwaring called it, though he 
was there practically every afternoon when he was in 
Town and was not next door at its duplicate in the 
Hermitage. 

It was warm in the hall. The sweet, intermingled 
scent of wines and the aroma of many blended Asiatic 
and Nile tobaccos, the fumes of whisky, the fragrance 
of dying flowers, the lush perfume of exotic women, 
and the animal exhalation of polyglot, middle-aged 
and wealthy men, toiling in the heated pursuit of 
pleasure, merged in an incense that rose like steam 
above the turgid throng. 

The cymbals clashed; the saxophones wailed; 
marimbas boomed; there was a rattling of plates and 
a tinkling of glasses; there was the fresh laughter 
of girls in the gaiety of their ’teens; and the mur¬ 
muring hum of scandal-mongering voluptuaries in 
their mid-thirties. There was the cackling of old 
men, waxed and touped, and laced into shape, 
wheezing over indecent jests; the shuffling of feet 


12 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


upon the floor, and the rubbing of sandpaper in the 
hands of a drummer, like Dead Sea surf whispering 
upon parched sand. Elderly women with big busts 
supporting unbelievable jewelry were hoarsely 
advising youth. 

Here was ultra-civilization, slipping from beauty 
into decadence. The yellow-white serpent trail of 
the poppy's drug wound in and out the assembly, 
easily discernible to the initiate. Only a few of the 
women were entirely marvellous. Their men had 
combed the world for their eternally flawless gems, 
and bought them each at its price. But the perfec¬ 
tion of the bearers was all too swiftly marred by the 
madness of their gaiety; by pleasures harder than 
labour, in the pleasure capital of the world. 

Among those few who for the fugitive season 
walked serenely the perilous height of perfect beauty, 
Mrs. Mayfield, the American, was easily first, and 
she was sentient of it, as she strolled into the danc¬ 
ing, with the ungainly but distinguished Briton 
cavaliering her, a well calculated foil for her charms. 
She recognized the tribute of the head waiter's almost 
worshipful attention as he conducted her to a table 
secluded enough for conversation but conspicuous 
enough so that she would be star of the manage¬ 
ment's profitable show. 

No girl-revue from Piccadilly, Broadway, or the 
Rue Bergere could compete in seductiveness with the 
volunteer feminine parade of Claridge's in mid- 


THE HEART OF SALOME 13 

spring, and Andref knew it. He managed it ac¬ 
cordingly. 

“Awfly hot,” the Hon. Hubert vouchsafed when 
they were seated. ‘'A little something with ice in it 
might not hurt us.” He ordered his usual high¬ 
ball, and his companion took tea, with the dissipation 
of a small pastry. 

They regarded the assembly, and the Hon. Hubert 
was convinced it was “ratty.” His companion 
laughed, “All but you and me?” 

“Righto.” 

Mrs. Mayfield was fairly content. She inspected 
several of her rivals and found none of them alarm¬ 
ing. She bowed and smiled to a few of the dancers. 
There was M. Coudikis, the Greek banker, portly, 
bald and benign, whose judgment in the stock 
market seemed to be infallible; Etienne de Marsac, 
reputed to be the richest youth in France since the 
war, dancing with his watchful mother, to whose 
grateful arms the Mayfield had returned him, when 
his passion burned too ardently; Sir Gregory Hume, 
that brilliant diplomat, fresh from the triumph of 
adding more wealth to his empire; and the strikingly 
faun-like Spaniard, the Due de Montebran, who had 
just married a Pampas rancher's heiress, and was for 
the moment faithful. 

They danced. The Mayfield was in one of her 
most distant and abstract moods, but swayed lightly 
as wind-blown thistle-down in the arms of her partner. 


i 4 THE HEART OF SALOME 

She recognized intuitively his languid grace, 
stepping to rhythm only a little less perfectly than a 
dancing master, after Chesterfield’s formula for 
gentlemen. 

She was conscious of a dreamy content. Mme. 
d’Avril, her masseuse, had been with her an hour 
that noon, and she recalled how deftly and how 
gradually the raw-boned Norman woman had 
moulded her mind to peace in smoothing and flexing 
the muscles that rippled firmly beneath the soft, blue- 
veined whiteness of her skin. From tiny toe to crown 
her every nerve had been most strangely troubled 
throughout the morning, and her heart held only an 
aching emptiness. Then Mme. d’Avril had entered, 
brisk and big and healthy. As always, the May- 
field’s spirit vaguely rebelled at first against the 
intrusion of her treatment, but as the coolly vital, 
almost electric fingers pressed, and pulled, and 
patted, and each crying fragment of her flesh was 
lulled to sleep, she had been drowsily thankful for 
these last refinements of luxury, which the continent 
had brought her. 

Undisturbed and distant she floated through a 
round of dances, first with the Briton, then with the 
latest bruising millionaire from that mother of mil¬ 
lionaires, South America, back to her escort, and 
then to those few flattered others who were permitted 
once in awhile to storm in vain against her luring and 
maddening aloofness. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


15 


Men were such easy prey, she had grown in¬ 
different to them. Rarely they moved her, and when 
they did, she loathed them,—all except two. And her 
mind this sunny Spring day began to rove back more 
and more to that widely varying two. The small 
talk of humoring her retinue she accomplished al¬ 
most automatically. Her spirit leaped and strayed. 

Her eyes, surveying the dancers, encountered the 
semi-mocking smile and impudently appraising stare 
of an old acquaintance but no friend, Mr. Thomas 
Malone, the erstwhile “Plug' Malone of the race¬ 
track, ex-jockey and bookmakers “tout.” There 
was open disdain in her instant’s glance of reply. A 
swift nervous nausea possessed her, but as her head 
was turning from him, she glimpsed the face of the 
girl with whom he was dancing. 

There was something so strangely familiar about it 
that she followed the couple as they swung together 
down the hall, the broad shoulders and elbows of 
Malone clearing way in the crowd, and the girl so 
tightly clasped to his breast that her ebony hair was 
pillowed upon him. The surprise of recognition fol¬ 
lowed. Involuntarily Mrs. Mayfield’s eyes dilated; 
her vanity case dropped to the floor; she lost track 
of what her companions were saying. 

It was “Monte” Carroll’s little sister, grown up, 
but not grown far,—the child could not be more than 
eighteen,—dropped suddenly across the ocean from 


16 THE HEART OF SALOME 

the sweet, clean meadows and rolling apple orchards 
of Carrollton, into the arms of this,—this- 

Haugh! The Mayfield shivered in disgust, then 
her heart turned cold. “Monte” Carroll's sister 
dancing with “Plug” Malone! 

She knew Malone. Sir Humphrey Leinster em¬ 
ployed him sometimes on dubious errands. The 
demands of statecraft call for all kinds of talent. But 
the girl with whom he was dancing could not even 
know his species. Few did, but a select circle of 
rich and faded old women, some of whom sat near by, 
daubed with paint and loaded with massive jewels, 
clutching with their shaking, bony fingers to grasp 
the sensations of youth. They knew Malone, and 
they, too, were sometimes his employers. The May- 
field knew him, and all about him, and them, by a 
queer, odd chance that made her shudder again. 

She conquered her revulsion and turned to her 
escort. “I wish you'd go and bring Mr. Malone 
and the girl he's dancing with over to our table,” 
she said. “They're over at that further corner.” 

The Honourable Hubert looked at her with eye¬ 
brows tilted in question. “Queer, queer taste,” he 
deplored, but started to unwind. 

“I used to know the girl.” Her voice was hesitant 
and very low, and her gaze was thousands of miles 
away. “Back home,” she breathed. 

Mr. Mainwaring was not obtuse. 

“Rummy old world,” he smiled at her, gently, 



THE HEART OF SALOME 


17 

and as an old and privileged friend permitted himself 
to pat her hand in doggish sympathy. 

He moved away, and returned with the ill assorted 
pair. They had but one thing in common, these 
two; they were both Americans in a foreign country, 
and though her life had long since made Mrs. May¬ 
field completely cosmopolitan, it flashed across her 
as they approached with the towering English aristo¬ 
crat, how strong are the barriers and bonds of 
nationality. 

“I’ve heard loads about you/' was the girfs en¬ 
thusiastic greeting when their hands had clasped 
and she had dropped into a chair. “Oh, do give me 
a cigarette. I’ve run out, and Mr. Malone smokes 
these horrible Turkish ones. He’s been telling me 
what a famous person you are. What a perfectly 
darling vanity case.” 

“I’m glad you like it, and I’m very glad I saw 
you here. When these two gentlemen trot off to 
the bar, I’ll reveal the secret of just how young you 
were when I first knew you in the States, and you 
can tell me all the scandal of the old home town.” 

“Both from Boston, eh,—a couple of beans,” 
rumbled “Plug” Malone; “you want to remember, 
girlie, that Mrs. Mayfield is a string bean, and don’t 
let her string you.” 

“I think we need cocktails, Malone,” said the 
Hon. Hubert. “;Perhaps if we have plenty you will 
pick a winner for me at Enghien to-morrow.” 


18 THE HEART OF SALOME 

With an inner grimace, not lost upon his comrade, 
he grasped the man's elbow in simulated friendli¬ 
ness. “We’ll just pop off,” he said, “and let you 
two blessed Yankees wave the flag together.” 

Malone was hurried but still affable. “That’s 
right,” he said, “you ladies must have your 
gossip.” He guffawed delightedly at his wit. 
“What is the latest dirt from Scollay Square?” 

Then he discovered that he was on his way, the 
gentle but firm pressure of the Hon. Hubert Main- 
waring at his elbow, and the aristocrat saying in his 
ear in the chummiest manner imaginable, “Queer 
old place, Boston, what? I was there once, you 
know.” 

Mrs. Mayfield’s grateful glance was on the Briton's 
broad back, and her thought was running, “What a 
dear boy Hubert is,” but her voice was saying, 
“Have you been in Paris long?” 

“Long enough to love it. Aren’t the shops at¬ 
tractive? You must know it awfully well.” There 
was just that shade of deferential envy in the girl’s 
voice which marked her as born with tact. 

Mrs. Mayfield regarded her. The mark of the 
manor was certainly upon her. How much she 
looked like “Monte.” She wondered for a nervous 
instant how much the child could have heard about 
her back home, then thrust the thought aside as non¬ 
sense. All that was before the war, eight years ago; 
the girl would have been ten or eleven years old. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


19 

Probably she would only recall her existence dimly. 
Boston had undoubtedly forgotten her. 

"It's a long time since I was in Boston,” she said. 
“But I still read the Wednesday Night Transcript. 
I used to know Colonel and Mrs. Carroll a little. 
How are they?” 

“They're quite well. But how in the world did 
you know who I was?” 

The Mayfield laughed. Her laughter was like the 
rippling tinkle of miniature silver chimes, but there 
was the faint, far, echo of sadness in it. From her 
vanity case she drew a slender, long cigarette holder 
of jade, and implanted in its tip a Lilliputian tube 
of white. The girl watched her tapering fingers, 
even as all women did and most men, till a waiter 
arose by their side as silently and instantaneously 
as if summoned by fabled genie. Mrs. Mayfield 
leaned to meet the gar^on's flaming match and a 
thin wreath of blue smoke writhed from the warmth 
of her lips. 

“You know we older folks grow sentimental,” she 
jested. “I have your debutante picture, clipped 
from the Transcript, in my library desk at home, 
with some of other people I used to know in an earlier 
incarnation, when I was Diane Barrett, of Boston. 
One of them is your brother, ‘Monte,' who was 
fond of me in my youth. You never heard of me, 
did you?” 

The ingenue was somehow awed, though she did 


20 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


not dream of the supplication, the prayer to fate, of 
“you never heard of me, did you?” 

“I must have seen your picture somewhere,” she 
answered, “but I can’t think where. Are you one of 
the Chestnut Hill tribe, or from Cambridge? 
Mother would place you in ten seconds flat, but I 
can’t.” 

“I’m Allan Barrett’s sister. You must know 
Allan. He was the fattest man in Boston when I 
was there. He looked like the dome of the State 
House. And he married that Dixon girl from Mt. 
Auburn, who wore funny hats and was a doctor of 
philosophy from Radcliffe. You surely know them.” 

Miss Carroll “my-deared,” with an appreciative 
chuckle. “Of course I do. He is the most wonder¬ 
ful bridge player,—really famous.” 

“He would be, I’m sure. By the way, have you 
known Mr. Malone long?” 

“Since I’ve been in Paris, four days. Why?” 

The Hon. Hubert dropped into the chair beside 
them, alone. He was quite unruffled. 

“I’ve ripping news for myself,” he said to the 
girl. “Mr. Malone had forgotten an important 
engagement, and he won’t be back. So Diane and 
I can have you to ourselves for a bit, and maybe 
you’ll give me two or three dances, what?” 

The Mayfield beamed upon him. “You’re a good 
boy, Hubert, and I think I’ll take you riding in the 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


21 


Bois later on. Did you have to remind him of it 
very forcibly ?” 

Mr. Mainwaring carefully adjusted a monocle; 
flecked some imaginary dust from his sleeves with his 
handkerchief, then grinned. “Oh, he had rather a 
nasty temper/’ he said, “but it didn’t go beyond 
harsh words.” 

The girl stared with amazed understanding. 
“Was he as bad as all that?” she appealed the 
elder woman. “I didn’t know. Some people I 
met on the boat introduced him to me at the hotel. 
And then it turned out he knew my brother, Monte, 
in the war—was in his air squadron. Aunt Lutetia 
wanted to poke about the Louvre this afternoon, so 
I let him bring me out to dance. I love to dance.” 

“Righto!” said the Hon. Hubert, rising. “I’ve 
been watching you. Won’t you try it again?” 

They swung away, with their companion’s mock 
blessing. 

Mrs. Mayfield was content to be alone. The fresh¬ 
ness of that child! And the innocence of her, with 
her mask of sophistication, her smartness, and enthu¬ 
siasms! Could this be the post-war “flapper” con¬ 
cerning whom there was such an uproar in the 
States? A wave of longing for a glimpse of that 
rock-bound coast of home rolled cumulatively toward 
her heart, and crashed upon it like a breaker upon 
the North crags. And she weathered it just as they 


22 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


do. What dear folks they were! But bitterness 
tinged her memories. 

Monte Carroll’s sister! She had a sudden impulse 
to escape the crowd. Her friends were returning. 

As they seated themselves by her side she picked 
up her gloves and vanity case, and drew her wrap 
over her shoulders. 

“I want you both to ride with me in the Bois to¬ 
morrow afternoon/' she said. “Well have tea at 
the Chateau de Madrid. I’ll call for you. Hubert, 
you’ll take Miss Carroll to her hotel, when you both 
get danced out.” She clasped his hand, as it lay 
upon the table, and shook it firmly. “I never have 
been more fond of you than I have been this after¬ 
noon,” she told him. Then to the girl, “Where 
are you stopping? At the Plaza-Athenee? I’ll be 
there at half-past two. Hubert will be there too. 
Your Aunt Lutetia must be Lutetia Waverly, the 
painter, isn’t she? I’ll wager she recalls me dimly 
and disapprovingly, but I’ll call on her. Mean¬ 
while, au revoir.” 

Mr. Mainwaring helped her extricate herself from 
the crowded chairs. “Typically Diane, to-day,” he 
said. “Damn perverse to trot off this way, but I 
love you.” 

“By the way,” the Mayfield asked of the girl, 
studiously indifferent, “where is Monte these 
days?” 

Miss Carroll was obviously troubled. “1 don’t 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


23 


know,” she confessed. “We none of us know very 
much about him since the news that everybody had 
of him during the war, though he writes to mother 
sometimes. But I’m pretty sure he's in Paris. I'm 
really here to find him.” 

‘Til help you,” said the Mayfield. 

“Then he's as good as found,” said Mainwaring. 

Mrs. Mayfield fled through the corridors to the 
street. “Chei moi,” she said to the flushed giant 
at the wheel, as at first glimpse of her coming from 
the hotel door he spirited the huge car to her feet 
from up the crowded curb. She sank deep in the 
cushioned shade, and stared with unseeing eyes as 
he whisked her out past the Trocadero to her home 
in Passy. The tears had gathered in her eyes as she 
crossed her threshold, but her maid, Lysiane, stopped 
her with a huge white letter lying across her bronze 
tray. 

She ripped it open, with swift recognition of the 
bold crest, and the wavering, struggling penmanship. 
She glanced at its contents. 

Then she almost ran to the solitude of her chamber. 
The sables slipped to the floor behind her as she 
strode. She flung herself face downward in the deep, 
silk comforter of her massive, canopied bed. 


CHAPTER II 

She still was lying there when Lysiane came in to 
close the shutters of her great French windows, look¬ 
ing out through the leafy verdure of the Quai de 
Passy upon the busy Seine. 

“Madame is ill 

A long sigh shook the tumbled figure upon the 
bed. Mrs. Mayfield rose upon one elbow and half 
turned, resting her head upon a hand. 

“I dine out to-night, Lysiane. You will inform 
Henriette. And I must look as well as possible. I 
must look badly now.” 

The girl began to busy herself with the hooks and 
eves of the woman’s frock. 

“Madame could not look other than herself. By 
time for dinner you will move as a queen.” 

She slipped off the bronze sandals, and peeled 
each golden stocking. There was a merry, little fire 
in the grate nearby, for the nights of Spring were 
still cool. Madame, at its first glow, wriggled her 
pink toes toward it like a schoolgirl. Lysiane went 
to the chifferobe and drew forth a green velvet 
24 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


25 


dressing-gown narrowly bordered with fur, and a 
glossy pair of gold brocaded mules. She placed an 
armchair and foot-stool before the grate, and helped 
Madame to arise. Her frock dropped to the floor. 
As an elf-white sprite stepped out of it, Lysiane 
swathed her and tucked her into her chair. 

“Will you bring me that letter on the bed, 
Lysiane?” Mrs. Mayfield halted her maid at the 
bathroom door. The girl brought it, and placed a 
reading lamp, drooping like a bluebell over the 
woman’s shoulder. She pulled its tasselled cord and 
shuffled away again. There was a sound of run¬ 
ning water beyond the chambers door. 

Mrs. Mayfield read the note once more: 

“Dear Mrs. Mayfield,” it ran. 

“I would be gratified if you would dine with me 
at eight-thirty promptly to-night. There will be an¬ 
other guest at ten, and your exceptional talents will 
be of great use to me then. Rest assured of my 
highest esteem, and more, my warmest affection.” 

It was signed by a name of which many people 
have heard, at which many have wondered, by a man 
whom few men know, Sir Humphrey Leinster. 

Sir Humphrey has been called greater than kings, 
the “Emperor of Finance.” It is known that he is 
one of the richest men on earth, if not the richest, 
and that his wealth is growing almost beyond 


26 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


reckoning. His gnarled fingers draw tribute from 
Singapore to Mexico, from the coffee plantations of 
Brazil to the oil fields of Mesopotamia. His swift 
ships ply all the seas, and his trafficking makes the 
rails rumble across five continents. 

As his trading moves, the Socialists of Europe 
charge, the course of nations sways and turns. Men 
are ruined or brought to fame by a nod of his head; 
he presses a button in most of the chancelleries of the 
world, and diplomats jump like lackeys; he wields 
like wands such weapons as strikes and wars, and he 
has harnessed to his wheels such forces as national 
passions. 

One of his homes is in the shadow of Downing 
Street, and another in Paris, on the Champs Elysees, 
not far from the Elysee palace. He has others, but 
they are not so well known. At these, if a man 
should ring the door-bell and inquire for Sir Hum¬ 
phrey, he would be met with the laughing response 
that no such person ever lived there. 

It was to the home of Sir Humphrey that Mrs. 
Mayfield was invited that evening. She did not 
doubt an instant that the invitation was a command. 
For two years, now, she had been going to Sir 
Humphrey’s house at frequent intervals, and else¬ 
where over the continent at his orders. Her visits 
and travels had paid her beyond her dreams in luxury. 
They had lifted her modest fortune to one of real 
wealth. Mrs. Mayfield had nought to complain of, 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


27 


she realized, in Sir Humphrey's generosity. She 
long had known of his affection for her, and returned 
it in whole-hearted friendship. But recently his 
affections had deepened in ardour. She knew his 
power. She recognized that he was lacking in any 
scruple in attaining his ends. She had had one 
sharp combat with him, and had come off victorious 
for the moment, but she was afraid. 

For the first time in her life, she admitted she knew 
the horror of fear; of chill, heart constricting, breath 
snatching terror. She hurled this ugly invader from 
the lofty ramparts of her spirit, again and again, in 
contempt, but always he came stealing back. 

The Mayfield was brave, and proud, beyond most 
women. She had become a little hardened by life’s 
conflicts, she knew as she gazed into the impish 
dancing of the yellow-blue flames. She did not 
cringe at the errand of the evening. She knew what 
it would be, with this guest, whoever he might be. 
She had seduced men from their weakling honours 
and loyalties before now, in the cause of her 
employer. Then she had always tricked them of 
their price, with scorn for their gullibility and for 
the sway of their appetites over character. She had 
never lost in these battles. She had come from each 
unscathed, and bearing whatever spoils Sir Hum¬ 
phrey Leinster had required, papers and promises, 
and strategic information. 

Only, for a little while that afternoon, had come to 


28 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


her the vision of her youth, of a life less complicated 
and more sweet, of comparative innocence, among 
homes and people who did not dream of old world 
evils, whose lives were tuned to gentleness and 
honour and high faiths. 

Her youth! She smiled ironically, and languidly 
stretched each ivory arm, high above her head, and 
reached with pointed toes to catch the delicious glow 
of the firelight. Her girlhood, rather, for the life 
stream that danced in ecstasy through her straining 
limbs proclaimed her a brimming chalice of the wine 
of youth, and the pulse that throbbed along her 
throat and half-veiled breast declared her only a 
moment since full-blown into the flower of woman¬ 
hood. 

But she had been tired of life scarcely half an hour 
ago, at least of the life she was leading. Memories 
which she had tried for ages to stifle and kill had 
come battering at her heart’s armour, roused by the 
sight of “Monte” Carroll’s sister. She was only 
twenty-six. But what centuries of experience had 
been packed into those eight years since she had stood 
in orange blossomed veil before the altar of that 
sombre church on Copley Square, by the side of old 
Daniel Mayfield, the East Indian spice king. 

For one thing, the war had rolled over the world, 
and everywhere life was not as it had been. The 
passing age was in travail, giving birth to the new. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


29 

And Daniel, flushed and hoary pirate of commerce, 
was dead. Thank God! 

“Madame’s bath is drawn/’ 

She welcomed it. She loved the warm caress of 
violet scented water, and the rough embrace of harsh, 
crash towelling, the virgin cleanliness of crisp linen, 
and all the bounding reactions of bodily well-being. 

There would be treacherous intrigue of greed 
to-night, she knew. Therefore, she must appear 
most innocently white. She must annihilate “The 
Mayfield,” woman of the world, and summon back 
that dainty Diane Barrett, whom she had mourned 
so grievously this afternoon. 

Lysiane fastened her milk-white stockings, even as 
she stood exultingly before the tall pier-glass of her 
dressing-room and noted with uplifted soul that no 
trace of her soft, luxurious life upon the continent 
had yet begun to mar her figure. 

Seated, she lolled and dreamed, while her agile- 
fingered girl unpinned her chestnut hair, till it 
dropped about her shoulders and hung in lustrous 
ripples down the outlined pillar of her neck, unend¬ 
ing till it lay in her lap. A great trouble, her hair, 
she sighed, but worth it. She permitted herself the 
luxury of a cigarette, while she sipped the aperitif, 
which Henriette always brought from the cellars to 
her boudoir before dinner. 

“C’est la jeunesse, ce soir,” she murmured, half 
to herself, and partly as an instruction for the style 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


30 

of her coiffure. “I am a little village girl, dressed 
for a very great party/’ 

“All as a bride, Madame.” 

Lysiane combed and brushed and toyed and experi¬ 
mented with each thick shining strand, till it was 
arranged to her own and Mrs. Mayfield’s pleasure. 
Her mistress roved the walls with idle eyes, and 
found them suddenly in need of change. There was 
a new interior decorator exhibiting that week upon 
the Faubourg St. Honore, and she vowed she would 
go and see what he could do for this boudoir which 
she had fondly believed so pretty, twelve months ago. 

They were panelled in olive green, and Verneuil 
had painted upon them the gently rolling hills of his 
native “cote d’or,” spotted with cherry orchards, 
hinting toward summer bloom, and cut by the broad 
military roads of ancient Gaul, lined with poplars 
from the outskirts of dull pink and blue villages, their 
colours all subdued. Here was the rocky cave where 
Vercingetorix had lain hidden from the Roman 
legions, and there the bubbling streams where peasant 
women knelt to wash their clothes, and meadows 
where cattle grazed in peace. Here one could live in 
a pleasant vista of all out-doors, with one’s shutters 
barred against the inclemencies of winter. 

“But it’s Verneuil’s paradise and not mine,” mused 
Mrs. Mayfield. “There should be a New England 
apple orchard bordered with vines of Concord 
grapes.” Again the twinge of memory. “Or 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


31 

better, an Egyptian court, that's the ‘dernier cri,’ 
to-day." 

The striking of a silver chime from the cloisonne 
clock on the mantel announced it half-past seven. 

Madame ordered her gown of ivory brocaded 
velvet, with only a modest decolletage, a girlish “V" 
neck. She rummaged through the rosewood recesses 
of her jewel case and drew forth a tenuous thread of 
platinum from which were suspended two pear- 
shaped emeralds, and hung them sparkling warmly 
against the creamy softness of her throat. Lysiane 
fitted her feet into green slippers of satin, and 
brought her a fan of sweeping ostrich plumes to rival 
the verdure of palms. 

She would be coldly distant as the Jungfrau's peak, 
but the mountain-top must glow with suggestion of 
inner volcanic fires. Only the faintest line from her 
pencil accentuated the arch of her eyebrows. She 
bit her lips till they flamed. You'll do, dear friend, 
she smiled to the girl in the glass, then wrapped her¬ 
self in an ankle length cape of ermine, and bade 
Lysiane “au *revoir." 

With pulse quickening to the evening's conflict, 
she started through the hallway of her apartment, 
then seized by an impulse, returned to her boudoir. 
She drew from a bureau drawer a long white scarf of 
filmiest silken mesh. She wrapped it turban-fashion 
about her coiffure and knotted it tightly, low around 
her forehead. She skipped down the stairs to the 


32 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


porte-cochere, where Sir Humphrey's great car 
awaited her manned by Umberto, faithful, brave, 
and discreet. 

“We have forty minutes, Umberto," she said, 
“to ride far and fast. Take me to the 'bois/ then 
stop just beyond the gate." 

She climbed into the tonneau and was whisked to 
the Bois de Boulogne. Scarcely had the car rolled 
to a full stop when she was out in the street. She 
slammed the door of the cab shut behind her, and 
was up in the footman’s seat beside her chauffeur. 

She inhaled a great gulp of the wine-like air. 

“Umberto, the devil is just behind your tail-light, 
bent on vengeance for all your sins." The driver 
crossed himself, but his eyes were laughing at this 
friendly goddess. 

“Drive fast, as you value your soul, anywhere to 
lose him, for twenty minutes. Then you may take 
me to Sir Humphrey’s." 

The car leaped away like a frightened deer, and 
fled, “ventre-a-terre" through the wooded avenues 
of the “Bois." The girl leaned back and closed her 
eyes to the rush of the wind. “Faster," she mur¬ 
mured, swaying to Umberto’s ear. “He is about to 
seize us." They raced over rolling hills, and out into 
open country, careening marvellously around slower 
traffic edging away at the sound of their horn, and 
the muffled steady roar of the engine opened to its 
full. The girl did not open her eyes as the peasant 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


33 


cottages, dimly lit and fragrant with wood smoke, 
vanished behind them, but drank the night with a 
rhythmic rise and fall of her bosom, until they glided 
to a stop once more outside the Paris gates. 

'Thank you/’ she smiled, sitting up. She sprang 
to earth and banged shut the door. "Some beauti¬ 
ful night we will hit something, 'mon ami/ and you 
and I will go to Heaven/' 

"God forbid." 

Ten minutes later they rolled majestically to the 
door of Sir Humphrey’s, and Umberto was richer 
by a crisp note he clasped after a most democratic 
hand-shake. 

“Dio mio, she is divine," he muttered, off to a 
nearby bistro for brandy. 

That is what Sir Humphrey said in his great salon, 
as he grasped both her hands and kissed them. 
"Diana come to earth," he flattered, "I hardly think 
my humble fare can compete with nectar and am¬ 
brosia, but will you come to dinner?" 

But Sir Humphrey’s dinners were marvels. At 
sixty, he was hard as nails and a gourmet. He ate 
ravenously, and his companion was a healthy woman. 

"There will be company at ten," he said, over a 
piping hot "potage Saint Germain." "There is 
much eating, and little talking to be done before then. 
Our guests are the comtesse de Vendome, and a 
Mr. Starrett, an American, one of these honest damn 
fools, who is in Europe and has been in the Near 


34 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


East in two capacities. In the first place he is the 
eyes of a Mr. Redfern, vice-president in charge of 
production of the Gulf-Eagle oil combination. He 
has been looking over Mosul and Baku. The Gulf- 
Eagle thinks it will get some oil there.” 

Mrs. Mayfield listened, ate, and watched her com¬ 
panion admiringly. A little, swarthy man, his black 
hair just flecked with white, as if he had been walk¬ 
ing hatless in a light snow, his fiery red-brown eyes, 
gave the lie to calendars proclaiming him advancing 
into old age. He radiated force and vigour, latent 
power, as the rolling sinews of a tiger beneath his 
glossy coat betray capacity for swift attack. 

She watched his hands, big and bony and long 
fingers, hands to grasp, and clutch, and wring the 
life from opposition; lean engines for the acquisition 
of profit. She could not imagine them relaxed, nor 
generous. To be sure, he had been generous with 
her, but at first it had been the shrewd open handed¬ 
ness of good business, cementing the loyalty of an 
exceptional servant. Later it had held in its largesse 
the taint of temptation, as one who was taking her 
up to a high mountain and showing her the wealth of 
principalities, and whispering in her ear that they 
might all be hers. 

“In his second capacity,” Sir Humphrey was 
saying, over fresh river salmon, hooked but that 
morning in the Loire, “he is the ears of the Ameri¬ 
can state department, and in particular has been 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


35 


listening to tales about me, which he is to relay to 
his secretary of state. And fully one tenth of them 
may be true.” 

Mrs. Mayfield reminded him, '‘You have paid for 
silence before now. It is purchasable on the 
market.” 

“To be sure, but prices vary enormously in amount 
and in kind.” 

His voice was reminiscent, as one who has had 
many dealings in many marts. How many whis¬ 
pered legends cluster about him, thought the woman. 
She steeled herself against the fascination of the un¬ 
known. 

“Monsieur Starrett is a strong man,” said Sir 
Humphrey, when his butler, silently efficient as an 
electric current, had placed a carved, fragrant portion 
of Rouen duck before him, and was pouring a 
Burgundy sparkling with rubies, into the shining 
glasses. “It is of the year 1870, this wine,” said the 
host with modest pride, “and holds the romance of 
the last empire in its bouquet.” 

“Perhaps I had better only inhale it,” the woman 
suggested. “Such romance is dangerous.” Then 
they both drank. 

“I have tried him with money.” They were back 
again to the guest of honour. “Loucheuse offered 
him the production managership of the Empire 
Petroleum Company at a fabulous salary and a share 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


36 

in the profits of the new fields. He said he was 
flattered, and would be glad to consider it after he 
had returned to New York and reported on his con¬ 
fidential mission. When Loucheuse suggested that 
this report might find its way to the Empire Petroleum 
directors, he offered to wager a million francs it would 
not. He was offered a million bonus, for signing 
with Empire and bringing his information, and he 
knocked Loucheuse down. Loucheuse has sworn to 
kill him. But I will not have him killed. He would 
be too valuable a man.” 

"How old is he?” asked the woman. 

"He is young, thirty-five at the oldest, possibly 
only thirty. One cannot tell of this war-generation. 
It aged fast. A bit of a mystery, as yet. My agents 
can find no record of him anywhere till he turned up 
at Angora with passports probably fraudulent.” 

"Is he well off?” 

“Redfern treats him well. He has fifteen thousand 
dollars a year, that’s two hundred and twenty-five 
thousand francs, and a drawing account for expenses 
of probably as much again,—not much, but fair 
enough for a young man. And he laughed at our 
million franc bonus.” 

"He is a new Saint Anthony?” 

“Diable! It is impossible, but true. I have seen 
him. La comtesse de Vendome is no mean baggage, 
with her baby blue eyes and her curls of gold, but 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


37 

she broke her lance against his armour, though he 
likes her well enough/' 

“Alors-" 

They were eating strawberries, the first of the 
season, each at a workman's day wage, with Chantilly 
cream. 

'‘Alors,—I think you will catch my idea. Where 
women as women fail, love may win. I have a 
hidden ace, and she is my daughter, whom Monsieur 
Starrett will meet when he comes here to-night. One 
of my names is Jacques Lecouvreur, and I have a 
daughter, Diane. She is,—if you will pardon my 
saying so,—enchanting. Monsieur Starrett will meet 
Mademoiselle Diane, when la comtesse brings him 
to hear my pipe organ. It is famous over France. 
Monsieur Starrett loves music, and he will love 
Diane. Is it not very simple? Mademoiselle 
Diane is a clever woman. When courted in marriage, 
one exchanges confidences. Even more when be¬ 
trothed." 

“And for a little while after marriage." 

Sir Humphrey shrugged. “Dianeis too clever for 
marriage, though of course she has not seen the 
American, who is handsome and strong, brainy, and 
what is called a gentleman, a good match. 1 would 
bid her beware." 

The Mayfield became more distant than a cloud, 
and as cold. 

“There could be only one obstacle," she mur- 



THE HEART OF SALOME 


38 

mured, “and that is that Diane might not be in the 
mood for hunting.” 

Sir Humphrey laid his napkin on the table. “We 
might have our liqueur and cigarettes in the library,” 
he said. “1 have a curio to show you.” 

The Mayfield smiled. “I'd like very much to see 
it. You always do have the most wonderful things.” 

He took her arm. “You should have been a busi¬ 
ness man,” he told her. “You have the instinct and 
the finesse, but I should have lost a rare companion.” 

The curio was pretty, a light platinum chain 
strung with tiny diamonds, all of a size and flaw¬ 
less. The Mayfield dropped her emeralds upon the 
library desk, fitted the chain about her neck, and 
gazed at them in a hand-mirror, backed with mother- 
of-pearl and gold, which Sir Humphrey drew from a 
drawer. 

“It is beautiful,” she breathed. 

“Men have been hung for less.” 

“Your information must be valuable.” 

“Damn the information. I want it, of course, 
but that’s all Loucheuse was after. I want the man. 
He’s one in a million. Will you get him for me, 
body and soul?” 

Slowly she drew off the necklace. She placed it 
back in its satin case. “I'll try,” she promised. 

The butler was at the door. 

“Madame la comtesse de Vendome, and Monsieur 
Robert Starrett,” he announced. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


39 


‘'Show them in here/' Sir Humphrey ordered. 

They faced the half drawn portieres of dark purple, 
and a moment later the kittenish blondeness of the 
comtesse came bursting through. 

“My dear, dear friends/' she greeted them. “I 
have brought a very charming young man to see 
you." 

She turned to introduce a tall, broad-shouldered, 
slim-hipped, young giant, with blue-black hair, and 
piercing eyes of almost ebony black pupils, set widely 
apart beneath his high forehead. He had a thin, 
straight nose, and lips almost Puritanically tight, that 
seemed to belie their sternness by a barely per¬ 
ceptible upward turn at the corners, a turn repeated 
in the outer points of his eyes, as if an inner mockery 
were struggling to escape through the gateway of a 
smile the prison of a sombre mood. High, almost 
prominent cheek-bones, a lower jaw sharply carved, 
a firm, square chin with the faintest trace of a cleft 
at its centre, these features completed the face of a 
dominant, virile personality. 

A compelling force, the man who towered in the 
frame of Sir Humphrey’s library doorway, between 
its purple portieres, clad in tight jet dinner-garb 
with a broad expanse of white over a chest that 
would have done credit to a stevedore. 

“Monsieur Robert Starrett.’’ 

Mrs. Mayfield swayed perceptibly forward as she 


40 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


stared, then caught herself, one slender hand clutch¬ 
ing the corner of Sir Humphrey’s desk. Only for a 
fraction of a second had the new-comer caught and 
held her eyes in his, but she had seen his eyelids 
narrow and his mouth tighten more harshly, even 
while its corners mocked the more. 

"Mile. Lecouvreur!” He was acknowledging 
the introduction with a deferential bow. "And 
Monsieur Lecouvreur. I had heard of your other 
treasures, your books and your organ, but not of 
your daughter.” 

The laughter of the countess Vendome ran the 
scale of treble bells. "I was indiscreet to bring you 
here, Monsieur. You have been so nicely attentive 
to me.” 

The Mayfield stepped forward, under perfect 
command. She stretched forward one sinuous, star- 
white arm, and for an instant their hands clasped. 

When in doubt, attack,—so read one maxim in her 
rules of war,—and her life, she knew, as one desired 
of men, and one who held within her citadel a secret 
ally of her enemies, was war continual and desperate. 

"How do you do, Mr. Starrett. I know I’ve met 
you before, somewhere.” Behind the surface wel¬ 
come of her voice was steely challenge. Her head 
was erect and proud, before the shrewd glance of Sir 
Humphrey, and the inevitable appraisal of another 
woman. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


41 


The visitor’s voice was an unperturbed, formal 
pleasantness. “I couldn’t be surprised,” he said. 
“I’ve often been—somewhere.” 

“Fencers, both,” the countess shot at them, “but 
we came to hear music.” 


CHAPTER III 

Sir Humphrey’s music room was a great hall, heavily 
panelled in age-darkened oak, hung with tapestries, 
and floored with rare hardwoods inlaid in geometric 
squares of alternate shade. Upon it stretched a dozen 
Oriental rugs. These rugs were beautiful. And into 
their making there had gone with lustrous long- 
forgotten dyes, the labour-blunted finger tips, the 
dimming eyes, and humble prayers of generations of 
desert folk, tossed by the great, mysterious Cause of 
life for brief instants of breath into the eternal sun¬ 
light, to do their appointed threads, and then to 
vanish into the sands whence they came, only the 
work of their hands remaining as evidence that they 
once existed. 

The ceiling of the music room was deeply carved in 
rosewood, with garlands of flowers, and urns, and tiny 
forms and faces of babies, nymphs, and warriors. 
These were the handiwork of artisans proud of their 
craft in an era when wages were of minor importance 
beside such weighty considerations as perfection of 
42 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


43 


art. If one could climb close to that vaulted ceiling 
that hung so high above the living occupants of the 
room, he would see the differences in style and spirit 
where nameless fathers had dropped mallet and chisel 
from aged hands into the sturdier grasp of anonymous 
sons. The jokes and hates and family adventures 
of their creators would be seen imaged in the 
grimaces of the little figures which emerged in half or 
whole relief from the background of dust grey fibre. 

At one side of the hall, from floor almost to ceiling, 
plush curtained windows gave a view of a garden and 
trees enclosed within the outer walls of Sir 
Humphrey's great mansion. At another side, a huge 
Aubusson tapestry told a “jeu d'amour” of some 
periwigged, silk-calved, pot-bellied Louis of France, 
playing with the ladies of his court in the garden of a 
chateau. The tapestry hung extended the entire 
height of the room. It hid the fact that the wall had 
been torn away. Behind it were the major pipes of 
the organ which Sir Humphrey had hired Guttwald, 
a famous organ builder of Mayence, to build into his 
palace. The instrument was equipped with an elec¬ 
tric motor, and such other mechanism that music 
masters might pour their hearts' harmonies through 
its reeds and stops, long after their souls were one 
with the music of the spheres. There were other pipes 
and chimes scattered through nearby rooms, so that 
melodies might come from near or far, and the room 
be flooded with song. 


44 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


An old man without kin, and doomed by his very 
greatness of power to have acquaintances rather than 
friends, Sir Humphrey had in music both companion¬ 
ship and solace. The organ was his greatest pride 
and closest confidant. 

“I can turn it on and off when I will," he had 
explained to the Mayfield with a quizzical smile. 

"So you can to the rest of your companions/' she 
had answered him, then turned adamant, for she 
realized that in the one, sole, unspoken appeal for 
sympathy behind that wry smile, the Titan of fi¬ 
nance had pierced her defences as at no other mo¬ 
ment. 

The room was so lavishly furnished that its great 
size was disguised. Floor lamps, standing like broad 
flowers on tapering stalks could light it in whole or in 
part, and there was an indirect lighting system in¬ 
stalled by an American electrical company to make 
it refulgent with a softened day-light. There was a 
piano of grandiose area whereon distinguished, long 
haired Slavs had played to an audience of one. 
They then had been motored back to their hotels with 
their pockets pleasantly lined with a crisp and crinkly 
reward, beyond the gain of a crowded concert, while 
their spirits were uplifted by a glass or two of Sir 
Humphrey’s centenarian port. Migratory songbirds 
between the La Scala and Metropolitan stages knew 
the advantage of giving their choicest notes to this 
recluse, and when they were away from Paris, their 


THE HEART OF SALOME 45 

voices could always be conjured from the great 
mahogany cabinet designed by the one American for 
whom Sir Humphrey had admiration. 

A clutter of marble-topped tables, statuary, and 
bric-a-brac, numerous deeply cushioned easy chairs 
upholstered in velours or brocade, some chairs mascu- 
linely broad of back and sprawling of arm, some 
femininely trig and dainty, and fragile, with gilt wood 
and purple velvet predominating, were scattered over- 
profusely and without arrangement across the expanse 
of floor. They gave accommodation for a large com¬ 
pany which was never to be invited, and provided 
jobs in the way of dusting for numerous servants, 
whose hands must never lie idle to the temptations of 
Satan. 

All these things were in semi-darkness this evening, 
with only one great lotus bloom of mingled pink and 
blue light, pendant over the piano, and a smaller 
illuminated bluebell shedding its rays on the bench 
before the organ. This bluebell cast into white relief 
the smoothly flowing curves of one soft arm and 
shoulder, outstretched to grip the corner of the bench, 
so that the blonde curls of the comtesse Vendome 
might lean more confidingly, trustful and dependent, 
toward the black shadowy shoulder of the elderly 
man whose hands and feet were busy with interpre¬ 
tation of a Bach prelude and whose mind was far 
away from the bewitching houri bending so fra¬ 
grantly toward him. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


46 

Far across the room, two burning cigarette-tips 
were alternately aglow and fading into invisibility 
like two comradely fireflies, while from the darkness 
behind them languid clouds of blue smoke was idling 
into the direct rays of the lotus lamp and there con¬ 
senting to be danced and tossed upward by vagrant 
air currents loitering in from Sir Humphrey's im¬ 
ported ventilation system. 

Behind the companionable flickering of these ciga¬ 
rettes, that hovered so close together, there sat a man 
and a woman who had grown up together; a man and 
woman who had loved, fought, parted, and hated; 
who had longed for each other, and hated the longing. 
Now they were crossing their blades in another phase 
of their age-long duel, that duel of sexes eternally 
alien, eternally grasping and covetous, separated by 
the flimsiest of boundary lines, and doomed to swift 
alliances and enmities, to treaties and battles, to cold¬ 
blooded distastes and passionate attachments. 

“Perhaps that’s the hardest task of all, to learn to 
withhold judgment,” said the woman. “But you, 
Monte, more than anyone else should have learned 
it.” 

“Perhaps 1 should, Diane, but I don’t recall any¬ 
one withholding judgment on me. And as one grows 
older he grows sceptical.” 

“Well, suppose 1 were, that—that thing—which I 
seem, or which you have leaped to the conclusion I am 
to-night. I have, shall we say, cheated in the game 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


47 


of life. Have you never condemned in your turn 
those hard of heart who damned, without a hearing 
and without consideration for temptation, a man, who 
had been caught—let us say, cheating?” 

The man replied: 

“Of course it seems to you another case of the pot 
calling the kettle black. But you see, whatever our 
old world at home may believe, whatever some think 
they saw, I know—and thank God I'm all that counts 
now—I know I didn’t cheat.” 

The woman laughed ironically. “You’d have a 
hard time convincing the Copley Club of that, 
especially as you didn’t even try when the accusation 
was made. And you forget that I was sitting in the 
game.” 

“I don’t forget that. I haven’t forgotten that game 
a day or a night in eight years, nor anybody in it. 
Some day I’ll find out, for my own satisfaction,— 
and damn all others!—just how it all happened. And 
you see I don’t have to convince the Copley Club, be¬ 
cause dead men don’t have to convince anybody. 
And Monte Carroll is dead.” 

“He was such a nice boy, too. I remember him 
well,” mused the Mayfield aloud. “Monte, your 
sister doesn’t believe you’re dead. She’s in Paris 
looking for you.” 

“Oh, I'm not dead completely. I write to my 
mother once in a while,—once in a great while, I'm 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


48 

sorry to say. She’s just like the rest in believing 
me guilty, but she loves me.” 

The woman placed her cigarette in the tray by her 
side, and leaned more closely to her neighbour. One 
hand in half caress grasped lightly the sleeve of his 
coat. “I don’t believe you’re guilty, Monte. In fact 
I’ve always known you weren’t, and I used to love 
you,—once.” 

The man stirred uneasily at her touch. “Playing 
the siren, Diane? I am even older now than 1 was 
when you grew tired of old Dan.” His voice was 
cool and level. 

“You hate me, don’t you, Monte?” 

“Not very much now,—I think I lost all that years 
ago. You see I can discuss it quite calmly. And if 1 
remember now, we both indulged in some heroics 

when we were younger. Now-” he laughed, a 

little shaken, in spite of his words, “now I am quite 
indifferent to you. We meet to-night, strangely 
enough. To-morrow we are gone, for perhaps an¬ 
other eight years, or longer. We can afford to be 
frank, as old—as old friends, let’s say.” 

“Be that as it may,—1 think you’re lying, and you 
still do me the honour of hating me.” 

“Egotist.” 

“You’re determined to be nasty, aren’t you?” 

“Really not, Diane. But I’m determined not to 
succumb to the lure.” 

“That’s much nicer. Now you're my old Monte 


THE HEART OF SALOME 49 

again. Do you remember when you told me I 
couldn't ride on your raft at the lake because I was 
only a girl?” 

“Can't say I do.” 

“That shows you've kissed a great many girls 
since, because that was the first time you kissed me, 
and you ought to remember it. I cried,—not after 
you'd kissed me. I was too excited then. But be¬ 
fore. Do you suppose you'd try to kiss me if I 
should cry now?” 

“Please don't.” 

“Don't worry. A tear is too high a price for a 
kiss, and women over twenty-five know more subtle 
weapons than girls of whatever age I was,—fifteen, I 
think.” 

“Undoubtedly. But why use any weapon on me? 
Why not pick out a foeman more worthy of your 
well-trained steel?” 

“Hear the man. You don’t really think I'm 
wielding my rapier now, do you? And you accused 
me of being an egotist. Why, Monte dear, don't you 
know the difference between real fencing and just 
polishing one’s sword to keep it bright?” 

They laughed together, and suddenly found them¬ 
selves back on the basis of an ancient camaraderie. 
They were conscious that the strains of the organ 
which had been tremulous and faint as from a great 
distance, were approaching as if nearer and nearer, 
playing one motif which strayed like a silver stream 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


50 

in a winding meadowed valley, ever varying, ever the 
same, its waters peaceful and calm as they rippled 
through pleasant places, stirred to strife by the 
obstacles in their path, but always moved by one 
insistent purpose, never lost, to find their place in 
the infinite ocean. 

“He improvises beautifully,” said the woman. 
“Don’t you think my choice of fathers is excel¬ 
lent.” 

“It should be profitable,” muttered the man, and 
his companion recoiled at his bitterness. 

“My oldest, and once my dearest friend,” she 
spoke gravely, and slowly, after a long moment of 
silence between them. “You have lived some years 
in bitterness at the injustice done you by persons who 
were sure their verdict was just. 1 am sorry, but 1 
am also a little disappointed that it has not yet taught 
you what even the masses, for all their ignorance, 
have learned; that the accused has a right to the 
benefit of doubt till the offence is proved beyond gain¬ 
saying.” 

“You forget-” 

“I forget nothing, least of all the time when—when 
I stood convicted—that's what you meant, wasn't it? 
You say you have lived by night and day for eight 
years with one scene in your mind, the scene at the 
Copley Club. I’ve lived that too, with you and Dan 
and Dr. Burgess and Molly Manning in front of me, 
and the table between. I’ve even dealt the cards a 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


51 

hundred times, and I know what each hand held, and 
I recall every word, and every gesture, and the ex¬ 
pression on at least three faces. And Monte, I know, 
—I don't just believe,—I know you didn’t cheat, so 
I can’t sit here with you all convicted and sentenced 
to scorn, as you can with me. It might be easier for 
me if 1 could. I also remember the night you were 
about to reproach me with. And I know that with 
your Puritan creed, even though I was saved from— 
from actually conducting a liaison with the man I 
loved, in deception of that horrible old man to whom 
I was married—saved by the fineness of my man with 
his traditional code of honour,—I was immediately 
damned,—for ever damned, in his eyes—by the hard¬ 
ness, and intolerance, of that same ingrained tradi¬ 
tion. I know the scripture. We went to school to¬ 
gether. ‘Whosoever looketh after a woman—or a 

man—for lust, hath already committed-’ That’s 

a little hard on humans. You never were fair to me, 
Monte. You were merciful,—and generous,—and 
gentle with me,—that night. After that you were 
brutally unfair, ungenerous, and intolerant-” 

The man’s voice was scarcely a whisper, and his 
words were those almost of reverie, rather than 
reply. 

“I hated you.” 

“You had done that already, only I did not know 
how much, and I did not estimate you quite high 



THE HEART OF SALOME 


52 

enough. I know better now. You’re fine, Monte, 
but even after the suffering you’ve been through, 
you’re hard.” 

Gently swelling from the murmur and sob of grief 
restrained, to a passionate protest, the music of 
mourning was filling the room from a hundred oaken 
pipes. They were silent as the theme turned to that 
of resignation. 

The man started once to reply, but she silenced him 
with a soft, “Hush, please, I need this.” 

It was Verdi’s “Requiem,” and it rose to its 
supernal triumph, drawing their two hearts together 
and upward, with its unmistakable crescendo of faith, 
its defiance of the mysterious darkness into which 
men disappear, its brave confidence in a realm of 
light beyond. 

As the organ pealed its last mighty shout of victory, 
and silence once more filled the hall, a little wisp of 
lace and linen brushing across the woman’s eyes 
betrayed her vanished self-possession. 

Then the artificial wrappings of society’s training 
were falling away from her. Quite naturally, as a 
savage woman clad in leaves would trap and club 
some furry prey to death to satisfy her hunger, she 
mustered all her primeval cunning and power to down 
this man at her side. She wanted him. He, and he 
alone, she realized, had always aroused in her that 
torturing hunger, that mad, delirious desire, for 
something of which she had read, and talked, and 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


53 

speculated, and dreamed since girlhood, the all en¬ 
grossing, world obliterating, love of mate for mate. 
It flashed through her consciousness that she did not 
know whether she loved or hated him the more, even 
now, this man who had once been at her beck and 
call, and who had escaped her. More than escaped 
her! He actually defied her. He was scornfully in¬ 
different to her. He had injured her deeply, and her 
wounded pride cried out for healing. She did not 
know whether she loved him or not, but only the 
knowledge of his love for her, and the strength of 
his arms about her, could ever sate her longing. 

So with the melting appeal of utter loveliness, and 
the cool, hard calculation of a gambler staking all 
and mercilessly determined sweep the table regardless 
of his opponent's ruin, she fought for what she 
wanted. 

“Monte," she said. “Do you remember the game 
with Yale your senior year in college?" 

“Lord, yes, what a licking I took," was his chuck¬ 
ling reminiscence. “They hit me with everything 
except the stadium." 

“It wasn't your fault. You were magnificent. I'll 
never forget the way everything inside of me jumped 
up and turned somersaults whenever you'd start 
around the ends. And when you got clear,—it was 
early in the game, wasn't it,—and every pennant and 
hat in the place, almost, was in the air when you went 


54 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


over the line,—I laughed and laughed till the tears 
came. I shrieked. I hit Uncle Harley over the head 
with my cane till he picked me up and kissed me. 
And my hair was down over my ears, and I was quite 
disgraceful, but proud. I was proud because it was 
you, Monte, and I had a little claim on you then. 
You were carrying a little of me with you when you 
ran. And every time you got tackled, I was bruised. 
You remember that game, don’t you?” 

“The only game we lost in four years! And my 
team? I should say.” 

“The losing doesn’t count so much, Monte. It’s 
the playing that counts. And I remember the game 
mostly because after it was lost you needed me. You 
didn't talk all the way out to Wellesley Hills to the 
dance that night, and then you didn’t dance much,— 
not with anybody but me,—but just sat and stared 
into the fireplace out in the ingle-nook, till I just 
took my courage in both hands, and you in both my 
arms. Do you remember that?” 

“You were a brick, Di.” 

“Well, I loved you then, and of course I don’t 
now. And you needed me. You used to need me 
often in those days, from when you were at Andover 
till—till just before the war.” 

“And 1 never failed you, did 1?” 

The man stirred uneasily. “Only once.” 

“All right, just once, and if we search back through 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


55 

each year from the time you were sixteen until you 
were about ten years older, we’d find plenty of times 
when Diane proved the old reliable to a boy in a 
scrape or trouble, wouldn’t we?” 

“What's the use?” 

“I'm coming to that. When you broke Sultan’s 
leg and your own shoulder, jumping him over a 
barred gate, I got you back to town, didn’t I, and 
alibied you with Uncle Harley?” 

“As a girl, Diane, you were the best sport and 
pal a boy ever had,—but what of that?” 

“Before we were—sweethearts, let us say,—I was a 
real friend.” 

“For years!” 

“Very well. Now we are no longer sweethearts. 
There’s been time for some of the bitterness of the 
break to pass away. I don’t love you a bit, Monte, 
though I can’t help being fond of you for just the 
years of which we’re talking. If you were in trouble 
I’d help you now, as I did then. You don’t love me. 
There’s none of that sort of thing possible between us 
now. And I’m glad,—more glad than you know,— 
that there isn’t. And just so there never can be, I’m 
willing, for the moment, that you think the things 
about me that have made you insult me to-night. 
Sometime you’ll learn better. In the meantime, I’m 
in trouble. Consider, if you will, that I’m an old and 
very dear friend that has gone wrong and am dis¬ 
graced. Still, I’m the old and very dear friend, and 




THE HEART OF SALOME 


56 

I’m in trouble. I’ve men enough who want to be 
lovers, God knows. Too many! But this is the hope 
I’ve been clutching for all evening since I saw you, 
Monte, clutching like a drowning man at a straw, 
perhaps. I haven’t a friend, a real friend, in the 
world. And I need one now as not many women ever 
have. For years 1 was that to you, Monte. And I 
thought for old time’s sake, that after these years you 
would be willing to forgive a little the hurts I’ve given 
you, and for the time you’re in Paris, or within reach, 
just be my friend. Couldn’t you be that? Couldn’t 
you stop reproaching me with the madness that fol¬ 
lowed a dreadful mistake of years ago? You really 
will be a friend to me, and help me, for a little while, 
won’t you, Monte?—Won’t you, Monte?” 

The music had stopped. 

The organist and his blonde companion had left the 
bench beneath the drop-light empty, and had 
vanished somewhere, unperceived, in the shadows or 
beyond. They were alone, the world as far away as 
if they stood together on some lonely hill-top with 
drifting clouds beneath their feet, shutting off the 
distant habitations of men. 

Alone, and very near together, the subtle fragrance 
breathing from her lips, so close to his, was like a 
deep draught of forgetfulness and sleep held out to 
drink; and drinking, to wipe out the bitterness of 
years that stretched like painful miles back to the 
wreck of his youth. His nostrils quivered in the scent 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


57 

of that tawny aureole that crowned her white fore¬ 
head, and his eyes were drowning in the wide, un¬ 
fathomable pools of hers, their sunlight jade turned 
aquamarine in the darkness of the room and the 
emotion of her appeal. Their colour and their force 
were those of a storm-lashed ocean wave, hammer¬ 
ing, yet broken upon stern resisting cliffs that yielded 
only with the ages. 

By the mute testimony of one strong hand that 
crept to her farther shoulder, and rested upon it, 
lightly, almost unwillingly, then strayed in the 
semblance of a distant, long forgotten caress, she 
knew she had moved him. She did not stir, for one 
long instant, poised so closely to him, and so tense, 
that a mere flutter of relaxation would have brought 
her home to the comfort for which she yearned. But 
she was wise with an ancient huntress' wisdom. She 
could almost feel, and wholly sense, the struggle that 
was rocking in his breast, for its counterpart was 
rising and falling within her own. 

“Diane—Diane," he whispered brokenly. 

Her vision was suddenly dimmed with tears, not 
for herself, but for this grown-up boy, whom she 
knew the world had hurt so cruelly. But her purpose 
was granite. 

“You will, won’t you, Monte?" 

The long, strong fingers of his hand tightened like 
the grip of a vice upon the roundness of her shoulder, 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


58 

tightened till she winced with pain, and even while 
tortured, exulted. 

“God!” The oath was wrung through lips that 
writhed a moment in pain above his stern-set jaw, 
and then snapped tight and straight. 

His hand fell from her shoulder. He rose abruptly. 
He switched on a second light within the lotus flower 
of pink and blue. The woman sank back against the 
pillows of their divan, fear clutching at her heart. 
He was strong, this new Monte, even stronger than 
the giant of old. Had she failed to win him? A 
swift rush of pride in him swept her, pride that he 
once had been hers,—and would be again, she vowed, 
with steel-like determination. 

She watched him as he strode from the lamp to a 
window across the room, and flung its purple hang¬ 
ing wide, so that the moonlight flooded a square of 
floor and the chairs about him. He stood gazing out, 
across the trees of the garden, his back toward her, 
but not, she knew, ignoring her. So she waited, till 
he turned at last and slowly, towering, walked back 
to stand before her. 

“There is too much sorrow in the world for you 
and me to hurt each other, Diane,—any more than we 
have,” he said. “But it's infinitely better to cut 
sharply and have done with pain than to drag along 
with an unending succession of aches. That holds 
true with the heart as it does with the body. The 
wisest thing for us to do, after our meeting from an 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


59 

eight years’ absence, is to forget each other again, 
—for another eight years at least/’ 

“But you never forgot me, did you, Monte?” 

His reply was stubbornly hard. 

“Almost. And just because I did not completely, 
we’d better go our ways to-night. It’s true, Diane, 
you were the best pal a boy ever had, true as gospel. 
You were a real comrade for years. You were loyal, 
and sweet,—all that you’ve recalled to me to-night. 
If that were all, it would be easy for us to be the best 
of friends now. But you know that isn’t all. You 
were more. You were my first love,—not 'puppy’ 
love, 'cub’ love, or anything like that, although I’ve 
called it that a thousand times. You were my first 
man-love, and I was a little more to you than a school¬ 
girl’s ‘crush.’ You were a woman early, Diane, even 
before I grew up, and I was your first woman-love. 
We both know that.” 

“First and last, Monte.” Her heart was beating 
desperately. 

“Exactly, the last because the first. And that’s 
why we’ll never be friends again. There is too much 
between us. The past is never a securely locked door. 
And love is a fire that never dies. You can bank it in 
disappointment. You can stamp it out with rage. 
You can even turn the cold water of ridicule upon 
it. But if it’s once been kindled it will never go out.” 

Mrs. Mayfield laughed, with a semblance only of 
calm. She had lost her first skirmish, she realized. 


6o 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


But her foe should not leave the field immune. He 
was determined not to be her friend. Perhaps, by 
his own admission, he might yet be more. 

“One can always run away and forget about it,— 
in time.” She was broadly ironical. 

“Yes, indeed,” he agreed, “and you can light 
lesser flames like back-fires to stop it from pursuing 
you. But I wonder if you can ever be sure they won’t 
go out, and the one eternal fire leap the charred 
stretch in your life they’ve made, and consume you 
once more.” 

“Dear me, you’re tragic. I didn’t mean to rake 
you like that. Suppose you sit down again. I’ll 
guarantee the fire is too completely out to be re¬ 
kindled.” 

He dropped into a chair. 

“It wasn’t—a few minutes ago,” he confessed. 
Then his voice turned grim and bitter. “Perhaps 
we could stamp on it a little so 'it will be dead an¬ 
other eight years.” 

“Stamp away, if it helps you, but 1 assure you I 
don’t need it,” she told him lightly. Then reproach¬ 
fully she added, “but I am disappointed, Monte, 
because I do need you as a friend. I don’t know to 
whom else I’ll turn.” 

“I’ll never be your friend, Diane, because I’ve too 
much cause to be your enemy. A man’s first love, 
provided he has the blessing to lose her, is never quite 
a woman. She is part angel. She is, let us say, the 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


61 


idealization of Woman. Not winning her, you could 
almost consider a man the luckiest chap on earth,— 
that is if he loses her to someone whom he can con¬ 
sider a worthy, upstanding rival,—which wasn’t the 
way I lost you. For he can carry his ideal with him 
through life. She will always be young, and ardent, 
and tender, and good. She will always be beautiful, 
and wise, a divinity to worship and wonder at, down 
through the years. The man will always feel him¬ 
self a little nobler, and worthier, because his divinity 
once considered him godlike enough to lean down 
from her high seat in heaven, and to lift him up by 
her side.” 

A wry smile was playing about his lips. His com¬ 
panion shot at him the gentle accusation of “Cynic.” 

“I don’t think I’m a cynic, Diane, merely because 
life has knocked a few scales from my eyes. You see, 
I can consider quite sympathetically instead of ironi¬ 
cally this poor fortunate devil who won the girl from 
this hypothetical man we are imagining, and married 
her. He’s a good fellow, this man who won, and he 
undoubtedly felt the same way about the girl he 
married as did the rival who lost her. She was a god¬ 
dess, and he was delirious with joy when he captured 
her. But now, poor chap, the years have brought 
their inevitable knowledge. You can’t cage a goddess 
under a roof with you and keep her entirely divine. 
If he’s a decent sort, and she’s the usual fine woman, 
—and most women are fine,—they’re bound to find a 


62 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


different love than the one with which they started,— 
a mingling of affection, and admiration, and loyalty, 
man to woman and woman to man, which is infinitely 
better than the one they lost, because more sane and 
true. But it’ll never satisfy them completely. 
They’ll look back on what they lost, and know they’ve 
lost it, and want it like the devil.” 

The woman leaned forward, her eyes intent upon 
him. 'Then the man who lost his goddess ought to 
have a very kindly feeling toward her.” 

She rose and stood before him, facing him bravely. 
"Go on, Monte,—and then?” 

"You know the rest. You know all of it. The 
goddess was not content to turn human. She must 
drop her wings in slime. If you’d ever been a short 
sport before,—if I had not known, even after you 
married Dan, that there was so much that was won¬ 
derful in you, perhaps it would not have cut so 

deeply, when-” He stopped hesitant, but she 

took up the words where he left them. She was pale 
and resolute. 

"When 1 offered myself to the man I loved.” 

"You never did. To the boy who had dared aspire 
to the best in you, you offered the worst. You broke 
his faith. And that is why the man who succeeded 
him will never be your friend.” 

"More than that. He ought to love her at intervals 
all his life, if he’s lost her as I said, but that isn’t the 
way I lost you. When you decided to marry old Dan 


THE HEART OF SALOME 63 

Mayfield, knowing what a rotter the old boy had been 
all his life, without having a spark of love for him, 
you killed my goddess, right there. Not only that; 
for awhile, before I learned better, you killed my 
ideal of woman. I think I’ve had time since then 
to discount, and to forget, whatever sting to my 
vanity your decision was, though all youngsters are 
pretty vain. But for the years of cynicism which 
should have been years of faith, I have you to thank. 
That rather puts friendship out of the question, 
doesn't it?” 

The woman's voice was low, and protestingly 
tremulous. “We all suffer hell for our particular 
sins, Monte.” 

“And usually we share our hell with the innocent. 
Of course you suffered. But then, instead of being 
the thoroughbred that I would have sworn before high 
heaven you were, you welshed on your bargain. You 
learned that you'd been mistaken, and that all Dan’s 
millions weren't an adequate price for the privileges 
which he claimed. You learned you’d lost, and then 
you wouldn’t play the string out. You decided to 
stick to the millions, despite a pretty fair pre-marriage 
settlement, as I remember it, cash in advance, as if 
were-” 

He rose from the chair, rigidly white. Years that 
seem long can be turned back quickly. And the 
woman again was glad! For the wound had not 
healed. 


64 THE HEART OF SALOME 

‘'My enemy, Monte?” 

“If you will have it so.” 

“My dearest enemy.” She linked her arm in his. 
“Let us find the others. They are undoubtedly in 
the library.” 


CHAPTER IV 

The morning sun was pouring golden rays as heady 
as wine into the book-lined solitude of Sir Hum¬ 
phrey's study, and a linnet perched upon a bough 
outside his window was bursting its throat with 
song, when) Europe's greatest mystery stalked in 
from his “petit dejeuner" of coffee, croissants, and 
jam, and took the chair before his desk. 

The ormolu clock on his mantel struck ten, as it 
always did when he picked up the typewritten leaflets 
which lay upon the morning papers close to his right 
hand. They were part of the labours of Critchlow, 
his English secretary, methodical as the Bank of Eng¬ 
land, who had undoubtedly been at work since dawn. 
Here, condensed in a dozen paragraphs, was the 
principal financial and political news from the Paris 
Temps and the London Times , as well as a radioed 
report from Sir Humphrey's man in Buenos Ayres. 
Beside these paragraphs were references by page and 
column to the newspapers that lay beneath them. 

Sir Humphrey's eyes began to scan, and the 
wheels of his business mind to turn, with the well- 
trained efficiency of an electric motor, swung into 
6s 


66 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


action at the turning of a switch. A line on his 
second leaflet made him lay the sheets down and 
unfold his London paper to page four, column five, 
midway down. He read: 

The Angora Assembly. 


Nuzri Bey denounces European Imperialists; 
Asks “Open Door” for America. 


(By Our Special Correspondent.) 

Angora, May 10.—Nuzri Bey, leader of the con¬ 
servative “pro-peace” group in the assembly, 
created a great clamour in the deliberations of the 
assembly here to-day, when he declared that “oil 
grabbing European diplomats” were gradually 
forcing Turkey to take up arms to defend her 
sovereignty. 

He declared the business firms of Europe were not 
content to bargain for the privilege of exploiting 
Turkish resources by strictly business methods, but 
made a common practice of accompanying their pro¬ 
posals with the pressure of their chancellories, in the 
forms of ultimata, the sending of troops and war¬ 
ships. “We should go further than extending the 
open door to trade, for which America stands,” he 
said. “We should give preferential treatment to 
American capital, with which we can do business 
without losing our independence.” 

The assembly was in a turmoil before Nuzri 
finished speaking, cheers from the intransigent 
nationalists, mingling with cries of “traitor” from 
his own party benches on the right, where Nuzri's 
surprising speech is branded to-night as apostasy. 




THE HEART OF SALOME 67 

Sir Humphrey smiled grimly as he pressed a 
buzzer beneath his desk. His secretary entered, his 
gaunt form bent to its customary deferential crescent- 
shape. 

"Good morning, Critchlow. This Nuzri seems to 
be an orator of parts.” 

"He has his talent, sir.” 

"Is there a Skola munitions salesman in Con¬ 
stantinople?” 

"The Armstrong man is there.” 

"He won’t do. We can’t have Britain selling 
arms to British foes. Let Italy do it. They’ve a 
man at Belgrade, now. Wire him. Also ’phone 
Downing Street to have Commander Balke or one of 
his fire-eaters damn Nuzri’s speech in the House of 
Commons to-night as a 'piece of jolly impertinence.’ 
Make him ask 'whether the British lion is going to 
take it lying down?’ Then wire your traders that 
when our third Near-East list falls off two points,— 
no, it will drop three at least,—when it falls two and 
a half points, to buy it in and wait for the rise. 
That’s all for just now.” 

The servitor turned to the door. "Very good, 
sir.” 

Sir Humphrey called after him, "A press report 
that half a dozen destroyers are leaving Malta for 
duty in the Aegean might help.” 

"Yes, indeed, sir.” 

Sir Humphrey resumed his reading, flecking off 


68 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


sheet by sheet into the bronze waste basket by his 
side. As he finished Critchlow’s report, he swept 
the newspapers after from his desk. A small stack 
of opened envelopes, from which the corners of their 
contents protruded, lay at his left. He started 
through them till one arrested his attention and he 
pressed the buzzer once more. 

“Is Adman here yet?” he asked of his secretary, 
who appeared as if rubbed from Aladdin’s lamp when 
his fingers had scarcely left the buzzer. 

“Yes, sir. In the ante-room.” 

“Send him in.” 

A chocolate-coloured Asiatic, clad in frock coat and 
striped grey trousers, wearing a turban of white upon 
his head, entered the room, and with a military 
click of his heels bowed low before the desk. 

“Good morning, Adman.” 

“May sunlight fall upon Effendi’s path, all his 
days, and his feet be set in pleasant places.” 

“Has Nuzri Bey gone crazy, or is he swung by 
gold?” 

“A little mad perhaps, like all his people. It is 
the work of that American devil, Starrett.” 

“He is only mortal, this Starrett. He is subject 
to all the ills of the flesh.” 

“He has the gift of angels, an eloquent tongue. 
I heard him when Kemal was rousing his Kurds, 
before ever the Greeks were driven from Smyrna, and 


THE HEART OF SALOME 69 

Ismet sat parleying with unbelievers, with all pardon 
to my master.” 

“He speaks the dialects?” 

“Many of them, master. He has lived much in 
the tents of Arabian sheiks, and in the hovels of 
Anatolia, adopting strange costumes and manners, 
and chattering in pigeon tongues, ft is his 'hobby.' 
He knows peoples from Mecca to Tiflis. Some say 
still farther. And as I say, he talks well.” 

“What does he say?” 

“He says business, always,—and he has for his 
friends the Christian doctors and teachers to help 
him with good deeds. I heard him once in a council 
where Kemal raised twice a hundred soldiers. 

“'Are not all men equal in the eyes of Allah?' 
he asked the natives, ‘and are not their properties 
their own? Why then should the European, who 
scorns you, who strikes your sons, and who will not 
be judged in your courts, stay with his aeroplanes and 
cannon about the mines and fields which are your 
own? Does he return you profit? The rags on 
your children's backs make answer. Freemen, 
living in a land of freedom, we have heard of your 
leader Kemal. To you who fight for freedom we 
talk as brothers. We do not want your lands. We 
want only pay for our labours. Once you are free 
and can bargain with what is yours we will bargain 
together. We will dig the oil, perhaps. But you 
will share in the wealth that flows. And in the mean- 


?o 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


time, we come with good deeds rather than sticks in 
our hands. Your children at Akbar have scabs upon 
their faces. I have a friend, a Christian doctor, in 
Stamboul. He will not seek to corrupt them, 1 swear 
it. But he will come within seven suns and heal 
them/ 

"He would speak thus, and verily, within seven 
suns the doctor would come with his little black bag 
and lift the sores from off our children's eyes and 
faces. One does not fight with such people. They 
have influence in all that country. So Nuzri speaks 
for Starrett, when he says, ‘let us do business with 
Americans/ ” 

"You are grown gentle in your country with your 
enemies. This Starrett is in surprisingly good 
health." 

"Aye, and more. The assassin, Osman, who was 
sent for him, now follows him like a dog, and all 
the world knows that Starrett crossed him over his 
knee as women do children, and spanked him with 
his open palm. 

"Later he dived into the flooded Maritza and 
pulled forth Osman’s little son, the apple of his eye, 
and placed him in his mother’s arms, so that she 
says he is a holy man, and must not be harmed. It 
was Osman who told him of the agreement we made 
with Salmun’s bandits to burn the docks of the 
American tobacco company at Stamboul, and to harry 


THE HEART OF SALOME 71 

their workmen with strikes, and their offices with 
thefts/' 

“It is for that I asked you here this morning. 
You, who were fool enough to sign papers. Is not 
money in the hand better than promises? Where 
are the papers now?" 

“The devil still has them, but we will get them." 

“What? You dog! Did not the fellow pass 
four frontiers to come to France?" 

“His baggage was searched at all four. He was 
arrested and searched in Italy. He was watched 
from the night Salmun’s strong box was rifled. All 
his mail has been examined. He has them, and he 
would not destroy them. But where? Torture will 
reveal. I will draw his finger-nails out, one by one, 
some night when he is at home alone." 

“He lives with someone?" 

“An American youth, an art student, named Red- 
fern, who has a studio on the rue Beethoven, high 
above the Seine." 

“Named what?" 

“The name is Redfern, Effendi,—he is but a boy, 
the concierge tells me. He dabbles in painting and 
dances at teas." 

“You are faithful, Adman, I grant you, but stupid 
as the brutes. You may go now." Sir Humphrey 
picked the telephone transmitter from the out¬ 
stretched hands of a silver nymph beside him. As 


72 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


the Oriental bowed himself from the room, Critchlow 
ushered Mrs. Mayfield in. 

Her employer was calling the prefect of police, that 
argus-eyed genius who sits upon the island of la cite, 
and sees into every building of Paris at will. Mrs. 
Mayfield dropped into a comfortable chair and 
crossed two shapely yellow wool-clad legs. 

She regarded with satisfaction the trimness of the 
Oxfords which had just reached her that morning 
from a boot-shop across the ocean in America. From 
a pocket of her short black knitted sport skirt she 
drew a tiny yellow silk packet, which when un¬ 
snapped revealed a half-dozen gold-tipped cigarettes 
of diminutive size. Selecting and lighting one, she 
leaned back, and let the grey smoke seep lazily 
through her half-open lips, while Sir Humphrey was 
telephoning. Her tight-fitting jacket of caracul was 
open at its sable collar, outlining her full white 
throat. Her cheeks were framed in a rakish coq 
feather, curling from an impertinent toque of fawn 
to circle like a question-mark beneath her chin. They 
held the warm glow of one who had just done her 
morning two-miles of heel-and-toe striding down the 
Bois de Boulogne, in tow of a great police dog. 

Sir Humphrey was gleaning information about a 
certain Mr. Redfern, who indeed did study art, and 
dance at teas, but who took his easel and oils out of 
Paris frequently. His passports, as seen within the 
week on the Italian border, had carried the visas of 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


73 

Greece and Turkey. His baggage included sketches 
of the quais on Constantinople. Once, when young 
Mr. Redfern had knocked down a waiter, some time 
before dawn in a cafe atop Montmartre, a telephone 
call from the American military attache at the em¬ 
bassy to a friend in the prefecture had sent him home 
unchastened and unrepentant. The police under¬ 
stood that he was a personage of some importance 
in his native land. 

Sir Humphrey hung up the telephone and rose 
to kiss one hand of his visitor, as it was stretched 
forth from the warm embrace of little sable cuffs. 
She smiled up at him archly, as he held her fingers 
in both of his powerful hands. 

'Tour dissipations seem to do you no harm,” he 
acknowledged. 

“We only danced till two,—at the Abbaye,—the 
orchestra was good and my partner even better.” 

“You had danced with him before.” It was a 
plain statement of fact rather than a question, and 
his shrewd eyes were penetrating deeply into hers. 

“I had,” she returned, meeting his eyes squarely. 
“So often that I fear I shall never earn that diamond 
necklace.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “One can never tell 
about that. The comtesse Vendome believes she is 
going to love him. At any rate he is her passing 
flare, though the fool cannot see it.” 

“He is no fool.” 


74 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


"Ah! Perhaps you love him yourself? He is an 
able man. I have more and more proofs of his 
abilities daily. And you, my dear, are considerable 
of a woman. But I do not think the match will 
come off.” 

"Why not?” 

"Because I have a dictaphone record of your con¬ 
versation here last night, and before I retired, 1 
studied it thoroughly.” 

Mrs. Mayfield rose and faced him, flushing first 
with embarrassment, then white with anger. "Then 
I need not have come to report to you.—1 did not 
know I was to be spied upon.—1 should imagine con¬ 
fidential missions would end where confidence ends.” 

"Pray sit down,—please.” Their wills clashed, 
and the man who stood on surer ground won. She 
sank into her chair. "I was present at your talk,— 
let us put it that way,—1 was an unseen listener, 
because two heads are better than one in dealing 
with a clever man like Mr. Starrett, or Mr. Carroll, 
—since you and I know who he is. You have given 
me invaluable information about him, without re¬ 
porting to me. And as for my confidence in you,— 
I have trusted you with secrets of value, have 1 
not?” 

He walked back to his desk and pulled from one 
of its drawers the little box with white satin lining. 
He unlatched it, and drew out the slender thread* of 
precious metal, weighted with its starry jewels. He 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


75 

came back, and placed it firmly in one of her hands, 
and closed her fingers tightly about it. 

“There really is no question of bargaining be¬ 
tween you and me, my dear friend. I have wanted 
to make you a present of this,—and since you will 
not express your gratitude quite as other women,— 
since you are not at all of the kind of beauties to 
which we poor rich men are accustomed,—we have 
played some diplomatic and business games together, 
so you might—should we call it, earn what I wanted 
to give you freely. Even now I was about to pro¬ 
pose another little service you could do me, if you 
would. But these things are not to be any longer a 
matter of pay. You are my friend.—It is a delight 
for me to give you pretty things to hang upon your 
beautiful self.—How many favours, and what kind 
of favours you wish to do for me must be hereafter 
something for you to decide yourself. They will 
depend upon how fond of me you really are.” 

The Mayfield trembled at the power in his low 
voice. Again she felt herself drawn to a closer 
affection at the appeal of his strong personality. 
She noted this with realization of impending danger. 
But she was loath to leave him in the face of the 
gifts he had showered upon her, gifts of the luxury 
which she loved, she almost believed, as nothing else 
in the world. 

“I'm sorry,” she begged. “What was it you 
wanted me to do?” 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


76 

He had released her hand and was smiling wryly. 
“What little thing?" 

Impulsively she placed her hands upon his 
shoulders. “Close your eyes/' she ordered, and as 
the business Titan obeyed her, she drew his iron grey 
head down close to her own. As gently and softly 
as the wings of a butterfly would brush a flower upon 
which it had but a second's impulse to alight, her 
warm lips touched his two closed eyelids, and as she 
dropped her hands from his shoulders and stepped 
back, he raised his head and regarded her. 

“You witch," he said. “1 wonder which of us 
two is really the stronger." 

“I am, I think, or I would not venture here. 1 
am really as immoral as you, or so I am told, but my 
immorality finds vent in luxury alone. What was it 
you wanted me to do?" 

“It really should be very simple. There is a 
young American named Redfern who is the studio- 
mate of your friend, Carroll. He has recently been 
to Constantinople, undoubtedly at the same time as 
Carroll. Although friends, they travelled separately. 
Carroll acquired papers of great value which un¬ 
doubtedly he brought to Paris. His baggage, and 
his person, and his rooms, have been searched 
wherever he has been. His mail has been opened. 
Where are these documents? Probably upon his 
friend. At two o’clock I will send you a report where 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


77 

you can find the boy. Will you bring me all the 
papers in his possession to-night?” 

“That should not be hard. Where does he 
live?” 

“With Monsieur Carroll, in a studio at 3, rue 
Beethoven. But you will not wish to find him 
there.” 

The Mayfield gathered her gloves and prepared to 
depart. “I want Mr. Carrolfs address for his sister 
who is in Paris looking for him. If you will tele¬ 
phone your information about the Redfern youth to 
my apartment, I will try to bring you what you wish 
some time before morning.” 

“I shall expect you.” Sir Humphrey bowed her 
out. 

As Mrs. Mayfield crossed the patch of lawn from 
Sir Humphrey's home to the high, wrought-iron gate 
at the street, her dog “Baron” bounded cumber- 
somely and joyously about her. She tossed a stave 
of song to the sunlight that bathed her in its warmth, 
and skipped a frolicking step or two for the dogs 
amusement. 

“What a pretty day for a dark intrigue,” she 
sighed to Baron, leaning over to pat him affection¬ 
ately. The guardian of the gate tipped his hat with 
a smile, and she bade him “bon jour.” Then she 
drew a shiny franc from the pocket of her jacket to 
give his grubby urchin for a sticky “gateau” at a 
nearby sweet-shop. 


78 THE HEART OF SALOME 

“We will take a taxi, Baron,” she said, “and ride 
home by the Tuileries gardens. The tulips there 
are in bloom.” The dog bounded into the car she 
hailed. 

On her ride, she passed the string of diamonds 
through her hands, and dangled them, sparkling like 
drops of dew before the dog’s admiring eyes. 

“Pretty things,” she crooned, “how I love you! 
And what a wonderful old world loaded down with 
beauty!” Their taxi came to a stop at the Place de 
la Concorde, to allow a troop of blue bonneted 
nurses to wheel their well-tucked-in be-ribboned 
babies across the avenue. The Mayfield watched 
them with a sudden odd catch in her throat. The 
shadow of a cloud darkened the sunlight’s mirror in 
her eyes. 

“Pretty things,” she breathed again, looking back 
at the children. Her taxi leaped into motion once 
more. She drew the dog’s head down into her 
lap, and leaning forward stroked his glossy fur with 
the velvety peach-bloom of her cheek. 

“I’d trade you for one of them, Baron,” she mur¬ 
mured, “you and the diamonds, and much besides. 
Does that make you jealous, old dear?” 

A low growl answered her, and she sat erect again, 
laughing as she rumpled his ears. 

“Don’t you fear,” she comforted him, though a 
trace of dew to rival the diamonds clung to her long 
lashes. “Your only rival thinks I’m a very bad 


THE HEART OF SALOME 79 

woman, and perhaps I am a little bad. He's good, 
Baron." 

Her mouth was set in a hard, straight, bitter line. 
And there was bitterness in her silent reverie all the 
ride home, so that the dog, sensing her need of 
sympathy, nuzzled his great head between her woolly 
knees and murmured a guttural “never-you-care," 
while his wide eyes paid her devotion. 


CHAPTER V 


At home she flung herself upon a chaise longue of 
purple velour and olive-tinted wood in the fashion¬ 
able clutter of her Louis Seize salon. She smoked a 
ruminative cigarette and awaited word from Sir 
Humphrey. Lysiane brought her mail and the news¬ 
papers, but she let them lie untouched upon the 
tabouret at her side. 

She must send her car for Hubert and Monte’s 
sister, and bid them ride the afternoon away until she 
could join them. She decided she would not join 
them. A nice girl, Monte’s sister, and a splendid 
fellow, Hubert. With the woman’s instinct for 
match-making, she considered what a charming 
couple they might make. If they should hit it off to¬ 
gether, it would also help to solve one of her prob¬ 
lems, which was the “settling” of Hubert without 
hurting him. She must steer them with all her 
finesse. 

Meanwhile there was her work to consider. She 
would have to change her clothes, after a bite or two 
of luncheon. Life was largely made up, it seemed, 
80 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


81 


of buttoning and unbuttoning, hooking and un¬ 
hooking, trying on and taking off fine clothes of all 
varieties. She wondered idly what proportion of her 
life this would represent if all the scattered hours 
were joined together and laid end to end till they 
represented solid years. Too many, that was certain. 
The women of savage centuries had the better of the 
moderns, with their seldom changed furs, or their 
plaited skirts of leaves. 

Mrs. Mayfield made of her lips a dainty “O,” 
and launched warm rings of grey smoke into the air, 
to float from her pillowed head to her outstretched 
ankles. She wondered if she could ring her toes, but 
gave up after a few vain attempts. She recalled that 
Monte’s room-mate had taught her to blow rings, so 
that she could blow them teasingly before Monte’s 
scandalized eyes. What a Puritan he always had 
been,—for her. He had placed her on an uncomfort¬ 
able pedestal. 

She ordered luncheon and returned to thoughts of 
dressing. Yes, the ancients were better off, but not 
the barbarous tribes. For dresses of leaves must 
have been scratchy. And while furs were very well 
in their way, she doubted if they would be as com¬ 
fortable with primitive methods of curing as with 
modern refinements, and lined with silks. The ladies 
of Greece were better off, with single tunics, caught 
at the shoulders with brooches. And the dancing 
unclad nymphs of mythical Arcady were best off of 


82 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


all. She would like to have been a nymph, she 
dreamed, dropping the remains of her cigarette into 
an ash-tray by her side. She fell into a reverie close 
to sleep, in which she was a nymph on a larch-decked 
hill, with a little stream gurgling down through a 
meadow in its centre. She was dancing in tantaliz¬ 
ing flight, but with never a care whether caught or 
not, before a funny bearded little man with legs like 
a goat's, who played upon two reeds, and who wore 
behind the mask of beard the laughing face of 
Monte Carroll, her ancient playmate of the New 
England lakes. 

She awoke. She shook herself erect with a ner¬ 
vous laugh, and struck the silver gong that stood 
on top of the tabouret. 

Lysiane was entering with her luncheon, and upon 
the tray was a letter neither stamped nor sealed, with 
her name across its stiff white surface in Sir Hum¬ 
phrey’s handwriting. She read it while she ate. 

Charles Redfern, jr., it told her, was twenty-four 
years old, and a student of painting at the Ecole des 
Beaux Arts, which he attended but little, although 
his work was creditable and he seemed devoted to it. 
He spent much of his time travelling, sketching and 
painting. When in Paris, he idled like most of his 
comrades a great deal in the side-walk cafes of the 
boulevards, talking gay talk in the midst of friendly 
tobacco smoke. He was well provided with funds, 
and his “aperitif hour” was usually spent at the 


THE HEART OF SALOME 83 

American bar of the Hotel St. James et d’Albany on 
the rue de Rivoli. Here he exchanged sporting 
gossip with Louis, the bar-tender, and a group of 
cronies of his own age or a little older, well-heeled 
Americans like himself, in France partly for study 
and partly to enjoy life. 

Among them, he played five-franc poker some 
evenings in a secluded corner of the Cafe du Dome, 
on Montparnasse, and was not averse to a gay revel 
every now and then with the sirens of Montmartre. 

Mrs. Mayfield recognized his type at once. Paris 
abounded in likeable, well-groomed American 
youths, trained to clean sports and vaulting ambitions 
by their universities, riotous with animal spirits and 
good nature, and often easy prey to the seductive 
leisure and play of Paris. How lightly these young 
Americans floated on the bubbles of the city’s mirth. 
They never dreamed of the griefs too deep for tears 
which lay like dark subterranean rivers far beneath 
them. Perhaps it was in revenge for their lightness 
that Paris laid hands on their hearts with its exqui¬ 
site beauty, so that many drank deeply of forgetful¬ 
ness, and never cared to return to their homes, 
and their sons swelled the armies of the tricolour. 

Mrs. Mayfield called Henri Bezanne on the tele¬ 
phone, her “cher Henri,” the mad painter, the wist¬ 
ful poet, whose triumphs with brush and pen drew 
men to him when he wanted solitude, and whose 
vagaries repelled them when he yearned for friends. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


84 

He had been devoted to her since he painted her for 
the salon, though he beat his spirit against the net of 
allurement she had cast over him as a caged bird 
beats against the bars that hold him. 

“I need your help, Henri/' she called to him over 
the wire. 

V I am drowning in work," he said, “but I would 
stop to paint you, my picture of ‘Love Awakening,' 
for which I have prayed to you. Are you still unre¬ 
lenting?" 

“You shall have the picture, Henri, when love 
awakens. And I am fond of you, you know." 

“Even as you are fond of life, and all living 
things, Madame. I would have the picture before 
I die." 

“Perhaps, Henri,—who knows?" The blood 
raced hot in Mrs. Mayfield’s cheeks. “Shall I see 
you this afternoon?" 

“If you command, most hard of heart." 

“I don't command. I request, that you go to the 
bar of the Hotel St. James et d’Albany. There you 
will probably find a young American named Charles 
Redfern, a pupil of yours undoubtedly, at the Beaux 
Arts." 

“I know him. He wastes talents given by God. 
But he is a likeable savage." 

“You will find him there about four-thirty, and I 
will come a little later. You will introduce me to 
him, and soon afterward leave us, and if you do this 


THE HEART OF SALOME 85 

little thing for me I will come to your studio within 
two days, and you may paint me, as much as you 
like, within reason/' 

Agreed. She put the telephone back upon its 
hook, then rang up Mr. Mainwaring. He was her 
devoted servant, he assured her. He would take Miss 
Carroll riding, and do any other errand, until five 
o’clock, then tea at the Ritz and await her. He 
acknowledged that he was deserving of gratitude. 
As Mrs. Mayfield hung up her receiver, she was suf¬ 
fused by a distinct feeling of friendliness for this 
suitor, “the most manageable” person in the world. 
But his stock as a prospective husband had dropped 
still further from its already humble quotation. She 
would always consider Hubert a dear, and she would 
view with equanimity his marriage to Miss Carroll, 
a good girl who would some day do credit to the 
peerage. 

She rose and stretched her slender frame its 
farthest, with her finger-tips high above her rumpled 
coiffure. A little cat nap would not have been un¬ 
welcome, she realized, with the windows open wide 
to the fragrant out-doors, and cheerful coals in the 
grate close by. But life presses on too sternly at 
times. She walked to her boudoir and asked Lysiane 
to help her. As the girl was busy with her hooks 
and eyes, her buttons and laces, Mrs. Mayfield 
sighed, “You are a great comfort to a lazy person, 
Lysiane.” 


86 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


“It is mv work, and Madame is good to me/' 

“It is so much easier to be nice to people. I tea 
with a boy this afternoon, a nice American boy, un¬ 
spoiled and sweet.” 

“Then Madame will wear a clinging frock, say 
the black georgette.” 

“You can even think for me, Lysiane,—the last 
refinement. And you can bring my squirrel cape, 
the grey one.” 

Again the Amazon in her tent was preparing for 
combat. And when her armour was all girded on, 
she twirled before the pier glass. “You darling,” 
she said to her reflection in the mirror, “you do 
match the spring-time, don’t you.” 

“Madame is vain,” criticized Lysiane. 

“I am, a little,” she laughed, “and yet I know 
one man who would not take me as a gift.” 

“Such a stupid one!” Lysiane immediately 
sprang to her defence. 

“And to him I could be even sweeter than I look.” 
She jerked her gloves on viciously. “Au revoir,” 
she said, and sallied forth into the sunshine. 

Behind the door that closed, Lysiane picked up her 
mistress’s scattered belongings. Then she knelt for 
a moment upon a “prie-dieu” before a suspended 
figure of the Son of God, which Madame had 
brought home because it was very ancient and had 
cost a great deal of money. Lysiane said a little 


THE HEART OF SALOME 87 

prayer for Madame, who trod such perilous paths 
with such fragile and perishable beauty. 

Meanwhile the Mayfield was speeding in a taxi¬ 
cab along the banks of the Seine, past the splendid 
gardens of the Trocadero down to the Place de la 
Concorde, through an avenue lined eight-deep with 
budding trees, across the great square where the 
cities of France sat looking down from their queenly 
pedestals, and flashing by the colonnades of the rue 
de Rivoli. Pedestrians leaped to avoid on-rushing 
death. Her driver twirled his car in incredible feats 
of steering, in and out of trucks and limousines and 
autobuses and other taxis which knew no law but 
that of the swift, and the alert to dodge. The horns 
of vehicles tooted in merry staccato blasts like those 
of small boys upon a perpetual holiday. 

She descended the three steps from the corridor 
of the Hotel St. James et d’Albany to its cool shaded 
bar, with its settees of comfortable plush, and its 
oaken tables, and thick yielding carpet, pleasantly 
secluded by curtains of lace from the busy sidewalk 
in view. There was her "cher Henri/” his long hair 
more awry than usual. His horn-glasses were 
perched on his nose at a slippery angle with their 
black ribband dangling, and both his hands were 
gesticulating above two mobile shoulders. A clean- 
cut, handsome youth sprawled in a fauteuil across 
the table from him, and regarded his smoking 


88 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


cigarette stub intently. Mrs. Mayfield swept down 
upon them. 

Both men rose. Mrs. Mayfield greeted the artist, 
with a “My good friend/' and a cordial clasp of the 
hand. 

“One of my talented idlers/' Bezanne motioned 
to the boy. “I plead with him to work. Monsieur 
Redfern by name. And this, Monsieur, is Madame 
Mayfield, the most beautiful woman in the world, 
who has been immortalized in oils by Bezanne." 

“I'm glad to see you. I've seen Henri's picture," 
said the youth, “and the one by Galuppi, but they 
don't do you justice." His eyes smiled frank flattery, 
the spontaneous tribute of youth. 

“More than justice," she deprecated, “they do 
me mercy. Is this the store where one buys high¬ 
balls?" She dropped into an armchair which the 
youth pulled forward. 

“This is the place," young Redfern agreed, and 
he called the waiter to serve them. 

They were friends within half-an-hour. Bezanne 
was moody, and they chaffed him together, the pupil 
with the irreverence of youth, despite the respect he 
paid to the genius of the craft he loved; Mrs. May- 
field gently, tempering her gibes with swift gestures 
of apology and affection. He drank too much of the 
Anglo-Saxon’s liquor, whisky and soda, no drink 
for the wine-nourished Latin, so that at last he stared 


THE HEART OF SALOME 89 

at them both through an impenetrable blue fog of 
gloom. Mrs. Mayfield took him to a taxi, and 
ordered the driver to take him home, by force if 
necessary. She promised she would see him the 
next day, and tenderly brushed her lips across his 
sensitive fingers as she said “au revoir.” 

“Strange genius/' said her new-found friend, when 
she returned to the table. ‘Tor all his deathless 
works, he'll probably die drunk in a gutter some¬ 
where, if he doesn’t hang himself.” 

A shudder of horror shook the woman. “Don’t 
talk of it like that,” she begged. “They do some¬ 
times die drunk in gutters, or mad in asylums, these 
artists. And our irreproachable world laughs con¬ 
temptuously at them.” 

“Well really,” protested the western youth. 
“They are not geniuses because of their dissipa¬ 
tions, but in spite of them.” 

“1 don’t know,” she confessed helplessly, “only 
my heart aches for Henri and his kind. They’re not 
masters of themselves as we are. They seem to be 
possessed by some force too powerful for them. It 
seems to tear them to pieces. They’re such easy prey 
to things we beat so easily, because their natures are 
more delicate. A violin is more easily wrecked than 
a locomotive, and infinitely more wonderful.” 

Young Redfern laughed. “But it’s the locomo¬ 
tives that pull the world.” 


90 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


The Mayfield shook her head. “It’s the violins 
that make the world worth pulling.” 

They laughed in unison at the futility of argu¬ 
ments, and the youth ventured, “We get along 
pretty well together. I think we should have an¬ 
other drink.” 

“Oh, four is plenty, at one sitting. You are idle 
for awhile?” 

“For the rest of the evening, if you will.” 

“Perhaps I will, I have restless feet to-day. 
Would you like to go up the hill to Sacre Cceur and 
see the sunset, over the city?” 

“I certainly would, and then take you to dinner 
and dance on Montmartre.” 

He called for the check, and Mrs. Mayfield opened 
her bag. 

“You must,” she said, as he demurred at the note 
she tossed on the table. “1 am really disgustingly 
wealthy, and I know students. I was on an allow¬ 
ance once myself.” 

He chuckled. “Fve rich and careless parents,” 
he informed her. “You may have heard, Charles 
Redfern of the Gulf.” 

He spoke the name of his father proudly, as one 
speaks of heroes. When they went to the street to¬ 
gether he opened the door of a waiting taxi. Inside, 
she sank into a far corner, and watched him as he 
chattered, obviously entertaining her, and delighted 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


9i 

with the role, as young men always are with pretty 
women older than they. 

Strong, and virile, enthusiastic and handsome,— 
and young! Oh, pitifully young, she appraised him, 
beside the old-worldly-wise youth of the continent. 
But cleaner and more hopeful! Sir Humphrey had 
said he would be carrying valuable papers, and Sir 
Humphrey seldom erred in his intuitions and in¬ 
formation. She would take them away from him. 
She felt a surge of hot resentment at the unevenness 
of the conflict, the unfairness of life. 

It was the same swift, red rage that had blinded 
her eyes back in war-times, when she used to stand 
before her canteen in the reserve areas of a great 
battle, and see the care-free, jaunty young striplings, 
singing their way to their baptism of slaughter. 

So helpless and unknowing were they, in the grip 
of senile and cynical plotters, who sat comfortably in 
their decay far behind those engines of war that 
maimed, and blinded, and strangled all these ripe 
youth, who lured the young men on to serve their 
greeds with cleverly wrought slogans of glory, which 
when the dirty work was done would be as by-words 
and mockeries, who seduced mere boys to cut-throat 
heroisms by bribes of two-penny ribbons, and crosses 
to stick on their coats. 

Rage at the gamblers who could not lose, because 
they gambled other men's lives and fortunes, at the 


92 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


doddering Midases who always won because they had 
sold their munitions to both sides of the conflict; and 
when it was over would patch up a compromised 
peace to suit their purposes, regardless of the victors 
and vanquished; rage at the great European indus¬ 
trialists who sat behind their diplomatic lackies; 
financial giants like Sir Humphrey Leinster, of 
dubious race, piling up wealth which they could not 
spend, drunk on power and riches. 

Mrs. Mayfield knew their power, for she served 
Sir Humphrey's business. But as she leaned back in 
her corner of the taxi-cab and watched young Red- 
fern, she hated the old men's world. “They've cor¬ 
rupted me,'' she acknowledged to herself, “with the 
gowns and furs and jewels. But I'm not all theirs 
yet. I wonder if I ever will escape them?" Her 
mind roved to Monte Carroll. Thence back to the 
work in hand. This boy had Monte's papers, which 
she would turn over to Sir Humphrey before morn¬ 
ing. 

It was an easy thing to do. . . . 

They stood upon the summit of Sacre Cceur, and 
watched the sun descend, a globe of fire, and its after¬ 
glow colour the sky with all the gorgeous banners of 
God's invisible battalions. They saw the twilight 
settle over a proud and beautiful city, and its arches 
and spires and domes, flung high to honour the 
memories of little strutting monarchs or magnificent 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


93 


faiths, shrouded alike a lingering moment in dusk, 
vanish at last into the inevitable night. They saw 
the city’s lights come out, and brighten against the 
increasing blackness, hung in long lines that crossed 
and turned, and grouped in circles and squares, like 
the lanterns of an unlimited fete. The strains of 
music, the hum of voices, the staccato notes of horns, 
and all the sound of hurrying night-life were borne 
to them on a crisp fresh wind. And for every lan¬ 
tern of ruddy gold that man had hung on the broad 
black expanse far beneath them, nature had hung a 
hundred others of pure, cool silver in the high 
whirling dome of blue above their heads, to guide the 
steps of the white clad moon now starting her even¬ 
ing stroll. 

They supped in a cellar poorly lighted with 
candles, but merrily noisy with chatter and the rattle 
of plates, and the "pop” of opening bottles, where 
an open coffin and gruesome skeletons stood before 
them, the merry-makers’ taunt at death. They drank 
a warm, ruby Burgundy, that made them tingle from 
head to feet, and the youth drank far more deeply 
than he had any idea beneath the careful ministra¬ 
tions of his stealthily temperate companion. Then 
out into the stars again, arm in arm, the young man 
singing snatches of a song he had learned in an ivy- 
clad school hall, far across the ocean, and the woman 


94 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


stopping him to point to the Milky Way, and to 
quote, 'The heavens declare the glory of God/’ 

He capped her line soberly, "and the firmament 
showeth His handiwork/' 

Then they laughed together for no reason at all, 
and he hugged her arm close to his side. They were 
two old friends, and they were glad they were both 
Americans together. 

Then they went to dance at a cabaret close to the 
evil white lights of the Place Pigalle. Their young 
rushing bloods beat one upon the other as they 
swayed in time to the negroid rhythms, coaxed and 
beaten from string and brass and taut-strung drums 
by slick-haired youths from the East Side of New 
York, who sang through their noses the sentimental 
obscenities of Montmartre's gutter poets. They 
laughed at the ponderous allurements of over-fleshed 
harlots, working desperately for bits of change from 
tipsy tourists, and speculated with involuntary sym¬ 
pathy as to the length of life of grisettes in their 
slender "teens," as fragile and pretty and meltingly 
tender as ever were broken upon the wheel of man's 
lusts. 

They drank more wine, till young Redfern's head 
was reeling, and he smiled apologetically. "Let's 
go out and get the air," he suggested. They entered 
a taxi, after Mrs. Mayfield agreed to a spin up the 
Champs Elysees. Whirling away in their dark cab, 
she saw that the boy was swaying. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


95 

She clasped his hand. “Sick?” she queried with 
an understanding smile. 

“I’ve had about enough. Y’must have hollow 
legs.” 

She laughed, and put one arm around him. 
“You're such a nice boy,” she said. “I believe 
I'll grant you one shoulder.” She unhooked her 
squirrel cape, and let it fall away from the arm that 
held him. Tenderly she drew down his head with 
her other hand, and pillowed it upon the perfumed 
warmth of her bosom. 

He murmured sleepily, “Y’re good sport, aren’t 
you,—mighty nice t’me.” 

She drew her cape around in front of her to shield 
him from the coolness of the night, and clasped him 
more closely. 

For blocks they rode, while young Redfern 
breathed deeply in semi-stupor, his hot cheek 
cushioned upon her breast, that rose and fell evenly. 
With her strong arm and lithe body she broke the 
shocks which their taxi speeding over broken pave¬ 
ments might give to his slumber. His hand that 
rested in her lap crept up to nestle beside her face in 
a sleepy caress. Suddenly he started up. 

“Gotta get home,” he muttered thickly. “G’im- 
portant messages.” 

“Tell me where you live and go back to sleep,” 
she offered him. “I’ll get you there feeling fit. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


96 

Here, wait a bit.” She fumbled in an inner pocket 
of her cape, and drew out a dainty silver flask as big 
as her palm. “I'm going to take a bit of this. It's 
pre-war whisky, and it’ll brace you up.” She un¬ 
screwed the cap and questioned. “Excuse me, 
please?” She threw back her head as she lifted the 
flask, but her tongue was tightly in its mouth as she 
tipped it up. “Better had,-” she advised, offer¬ 

ing it to him. 

“A—right,” he grinned, taking it. “One lit’l 
drink won’ do us any harm.” He drank a huge 
gulp, choked, and gave her the flask. “Four rue 
Beethoven,” he told her. “You tell'm.” Then he 
settled back to sleep upon her shoulder. Within a 
minute, he had fallen relaxed, in a dead coma. 

“Poor baby,” she murmured pityingly, and slid 
him back against the cushions of the cab. With 
prodding fingers she explored his body, and they at 
once struck the outlines of a hard package. She ran 
her nimble fingers through his overcoat, coat, and 
vest, then unbuttoned the waistcoat and shirt. 
Strapped beneath one arm-pit was a little cloth bag, 
flat and hard. She dug into her hand-bag and ex¬ 
tracted tiny scissors. She snipped the cords that held 
the bag, then cut it open. Here, as Sir Humphrey 
had prophesied, were papers, and by the dim light 
from recurrent street corners she examined them suf¬ 
ficiently to see that they were beyond doubt what he 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


97 

wanted. She carefully buttoned the youth's cloth¬ 
ing, and rapped on the window, giving the driver his 
address. 

Then with the packet in her bosom, where but a 
few moments before his head had rested, she drew her 
cape about her and sat back silently until the course 
was run. 

The rue Beethoven is a blind alley, running from 
the quai de Passy upon the Seine some fifty yards 
back to a high wall, above which are perched the 
sumptuous apartments favoured most by the smartest 
English colony. But the buildings in the alley are 
more humble. They house a group of artists, whose 
studio windows give interesting glimpses of the tree- 
lined Seine. The taxi rolled into the alley and 
turned around. 

“Help me," Mrs. Mayfield ordered the driver. 
Between them they lifted the youth to the sidewalk, 
thence to the care of the concierge, shuffling out 
drowsily in his slippers to answer the call of their 
bell. 

Mrs. Mayfield re-entered her vehicle, and gave Sir 
Humphrey's address. As they rolled to the corner, 
she saw a tall, broad-shouldered, well-remembered 
figure come striding up to the turn. Her face was in 
the window, but she drew back into the shadows as 
she realized the street light beat squarely upon her. 

Her heart leaped. Had he recognized her? 


98 THE HEART OF SALOME 

A hundred yards away she leaned from the window 
and looked back. Monte Carroll was still standing 
beneath the light, gazing after her vanishing taxi. 


CHAPTER VI 


He had seen her. 

For a long moment her heart seemed to constrict, 
and she rocked dizzily, till the taxi seemed slipping 
away beneath her. She had a vague sense that it 
was carrying her body along with it, but was leaving 
her real self somewhere behind it, suspended oddly 
in empty space. Lights danced insanely before her 
eyes and she was cold. She steadied herself with a 
grasp of the window sill. Then sensitive to the cool 
breeze, she clasped her cloak about her throat. But 
her cheeks suffused and burned. 

A dry sob racked her throat. And she was staring 
straight into a scene in which she was the leading 
actress, a scene of seduction and robbery in a whirl¬ 
ing taxi, with a helpless, good-hearted boy for victim, 
and a hardened, avaricious, worldly woman batten¬ 
ing upon him. She was looking at herself with eyes 
widened in horror, revealed to herself in the deed she 
had done, through the pitiless lenses of shame. 

She recoiled at the vision. With lips that writhed, 

99 


lOO 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


she murmured a “no” of protest. She could not 
have done that. But the packet of papers that 
weighed like a solid rock upon her beating heart, 
threatening to stifle it into stilled submission, an¬ 
swered her, “yes—you did—you did.” She was 
lashed by the whips of remorse. 

She had taken a boy who was bearing the trust of 
a friend. She had eaten of his bread, and drunk of 
his wine. Then she had lured him to a place alone, 
and robbed him of that which he held dearer than 
money, papers that were the symbol of man’s recog¬ 
nition that he had arrived at man’s estate, and could 
take care of himself. 

Now she was speeding toward her employer on this 
fiendish errand, with the spoils hugged tight to her 
body. Her clenched fist pressed hard against the 
package, and her nails dug deep in the flesh of her 
palms. 

She rallied herself to defend her respect. “I’ve 
never felt this way before,” she thought, “I’m a fool. 
The world is hard, and I’ve fought it hard, a woman 
against wolfish men, and I’ve won.” 

But even as she argued she was battered by the 
reply of truth, that this time she had fought no 
worldly sensualist, no unscrupulous trader, bent on 
lightening his leisure by degrading her. She had 
defrauded a boy who sought of her only companion¬ 
ship in play. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


101 


“I can't,—I can't/' she moaned. She ripped the 
package from her bosom and hurled it into a far 
corner of her taxi. But even as she protested, she 
knew that she would see this errand through to its 
conclusion, and the vista of others like it arose before 
her. 

She hammered upon the window in front of her, 
and the driver slowed the car. She leaned out the 
door, and changed the address from Sir Humphrey's 
to her own. 

‘This is the last," she said. The road seemed 
interminable until she could reach the friendly door¬ 
way of her home. At last she was there. She picked 
up the hateful package and rushed to the calming 
solitude of her boudoir. How comfortable it was! 
She yearned to stay in it for always, hidden from the 
prying eyes of the world, which surely must read 
her shame. 

She rang furiously for Lysiane. A silver chime 
told her the hour. Only twelve o’clock, for all the 
sickening tragedy of a day that seemed years long. 
She stood as if dazed, facing the door, clutching the 
package of letters in her hand, till Lysiane entered 
in bath-robe and night-cap. 

The maid stopped, startled at her mistress’s mien. 
“Madame," she cried. “You are ill." 

Mrs. Mayfield half wept, half laughed. “I am 
ill at heart, Lysiane. I have done the vilest thing." 


102 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


The other woman swept forward and caught her 
in her arms. “Mais non, Madame, mais non! You 
could not.” 

But Mrs. Mayfield cried, “Mais oui, Lysiane! 
Nothing to hurt myself. But I have hurt a child. I 
am a bad woman, Lysiane.” 

The maid was stroking her hair, and holding her 
fevered forehead to her shoulder. 

“You could not be bad, my lamb. Have I not 
lived with you these many years? Hurts come to 
children as the days come, and are as quickly for¬ 
gotten. It is that Madame has broken a heart, is it 
not? Hearts are mended soon.” 

Mrs. Mayfield drew away, and in her voice was 
wearied sadness. “It is not that, and hearts are not 
mended soon. Will you pour my bath? I am 
vile.” 

She dropped the packet from her hand to the 
dressing-table, and fumbled at the hooks of her frock. 
She gazed into the mirror, and her hand clenched 
her throat. She was old, this woman who stared 
back at her, and she had seen sorrows. 

The routine, necessary movements of her hands 
unfastening her dress were distractions to ease her 
suffering. She could think more clearly now, with 
the music of running water in the bathroom, and the 
accustomed Lysiane ministering deftly and softly to 
her. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 103 

She could not palliate her offence. It was the 
lowest deed of which she had ever been guilty. 

She thought back to the act which had brought her 
the scorn of Monte Carroll, her loveless marriage as 
a girl to the loathsome, money-laden old roue, Dan 
Mayfield. That marriage at least had ignorance to 
excuse it. 

And that foolish impulse which had turned Monte's 
scorn to hatred, when the burden of her life with 
Dan had seemed greater than she could bear,—what¬ 
ever the strict moralists might say of it,—she, know¬ 
ing that she had courted an illicit romance with the 
man of whom fate had robbed her, would never blame 
herself for wanting it and seeking it. She would 
only blame herself for the blunder worse than sin, of 
under-estimating Monte, and thinking he would share 
in clandestine adultery. She had not known men 
very well at nineteen or she never would have gauged 
wrongly the boy who had loved and lost her. 

(To those who grope their way from wrong to 
right and back to wrong again, buffeted one way and 
kicked another by sportive desires far bigger than 
they, which play with them from that helpless day 
of their conception till they die, some spirit of infinite 
pity has provided a blessed drug. It is called self¬ 
justification. 

“Come now," whispers the drug to their brains, 
creeping through all the veins made feverish by 


104 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


shame, and cooling, calming them. “You really 
aren’t so bad. Were not the circumstances thus and 
so? And what is bad? And what is good? Who 
knows?” 

A marvel of nature, this, to prevent men leaping 
off high cliffs, and drowning themselves in black, 
deep rivers to escape that terrible angel with the 
sword of fire, or if you will, that damnable devil with 
his three sharp prongs, which men call conscience.) 

The healing drug was beginning to seep through 
Mrs. Mayfield’s wearied brain by the time she again 
sat at her dressing-table preparing for her visit to 
Sir Humphrey. “I don’t mean to do wrong,” she 
reasoned, “but life is difficult.” 

The disgust at her evening’s revelation of whither 
life had carried her was too strong, too recent, how¬ 
ever, to be downed so easily. And her shame at hav¬ 
ing been discovered by the one man before whom she 
longed to redeem herself swept over her in hot, morti¬ 
fying waves. Monte had seen her. He knew. 

“How could I have done it?” she asked. She 
began diligent search for the devil who had tempted 
her. 

“This is the last errand I will do for Sir 
Humphrey.” 

She opened her jewel box to bring forth a strand of 
emeralds to hang about her neck. Her fingers closed 
on a glistening handful, and she raised it up before 
the mirror so that the jewels sparkled in the reflected 


THE HEART OF SALOME 105 

lights like a fistful of star-dust, caught in a cluster 
of flowers. 

And the eyes of the tempter whom she sought 
gleamed out from between her white fingers. She 
almost sobbed as she drew the jewels to her lips, and 
held them before her eyes, balancing them this way 
and that to catch each varied brilliance. 

“You beauties, how I love you!” she whispered. 
She let them slide through her fingers to the table. 
Then she drew out tiny boxes and trays from the 
plush lined casket. She emptied them of rings, of 
brooches, and of bracelets, a coronet of diamonds, 
and a long rope of creamy pearls. There they lay, 
all scattered upon the table, as they often did, so 
that she could gloat over them and caress them. 

But now a pale, tense resolution was driving the 
flush from her cheeks. She was done with the life 
that had earned her most of them, and the deep, un¬ 
deniable thirst for self-approval, for rehabilitation of 
her self-respect, was welling up within her. Her 
soul craved penance as a sun-parched desert traveller 
craves water, and the way was open before her. She 
would perform the ancient purifying rite of sacrifice, 
to which men have always turned ever since all men 
were children wandering in a strange new world, 
wondering at the sun and rocks and trees. And in 
the act of sacrifice she would exorcise the evil spirit 
that had brought her downfall. 


io6 THE HEART OF SALOME 

She ran her fingers through the jewels, smoothing 
them, stroking and rattling them. Then she began 
to separate them to the right and left. The right 
hand pile was large. It contained the gems that Sir 
Humphrey had given her. They must go back to 
him. She was done with the life that had earned 
them. The left hand mound had been given her by 
Dan Mayfield, and she was through with that life 
too. But jewels were jewels, and humans are hu¬ 
mans, and while women may seek saintly lives, all 
life is compromise. Dan was dead. His gifts did 
not matter. She took the jewel casket, and dropped 
the left hand pile into it. 

“Lysiane,” she summoned, “bring a paper and 
string and wrap this up.” The maid wonderingly 
obeyed, while her mistress stood silent, eyes staring, 
lips parted, and breathing quickly. A horrible ache 
was at her heart. She was half regretful and holding 
back an impulse to stay the hand which was wrap¬ 
ping that bundle. Her jewels! No longer hers. 

Then she telephoned Sir Humphrey. She told 
him that she had his papers, and that if he would 
send his car to her home she would come to him with 
them. 

The car sounded its signal in the driveway below. 
She was ready, in a gown of white, even as a little 
girl goes to her first communion, with white lights 
shining in her eyes, and her soul uplifted. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


107 


A great fire roared in the massive fireplace of Sir 
Humphrey’s study, making a pleasant, flickering twi¬ 
light in its darkness, and warming it comfortably, 
although the tall French windows opening on the 
garden balcony were thrown wide for the freshness of 
out-doors to enter. Before the fire two high-backed 
armchairs were drawn companionably close, and 
between them, outlined against the blaze, Sir 
Humphrey received her. He was clad as always 
irreproachably. Two black pearls shone sombrely 
against the whiteness of his shirt front. Only a 
single small desk lamp added to the illumination of 
the room, with its little disk of suspended white, 
which broadened as it fell upon a slender row of 
books held in brackets, and the gleaming mahogany 
table-top. The room held an air of intimate friend¬ 
liness, and Sir Humphrey, stepping forward, hands 
out-stretched in proffer of help in removing Mrs. 
Mayfield’s cape, was greeting her as an old, warm 
friend. 

“As beautiful and successful as ever,” he told her. 
“I see you come heavily laden.” 

She smiled sadly, as her cape slipped off into his 
hands. “I am heavily laden to-night, Humphrey, 
more than you know.” 

He chaffed at her melancholy. “So young for a 
woman of sorrows. I have asked Saki to prepare us 
sandwiches and champagne and perhaps together we 
can cheer you up.” 


108 THE HEART OF SALOME 

He accepted the packet of papers which she thrust 
into his hand. “If these are what I think they are 
I certainly am grateful to you.” 

She sank into one of the chairs, holding her jewel 
casket on her lap. Sir Humphrey sat in the other, 
which he drew toward her. He pulled out the papers 
from his package and examined them silently, one 
by one, laying them each on the floor before him. 

“A youthful country, yours,” he said, “and 
amazingly strong in its youth. It is just learning 
that sometimes the success of trade is helped by a 
little world politics, and sometimes furthered by the 
use of such unbusinesslike weapons as warships and 
marines.” He was studying one paper intently. “I 
think if this paper, which never should have been 
written, goes no further than this room, it may not 
call forth the cruiser or two and the ‘devil dogs/— 
you call them ‘devil dogs/ do you not?—to make 
the long voyage to the East that might be likely if 
it should fall into the hands of your State Depart¬ 
ment.” 

Mrs. Mayfield said nothing. What a revelation 
Sir Humphrey was she was thinking, of the great 
alliance of finance and diplomacy. 

A Japanese man-servant entered noiselessly, bear¬ 
ing a small table, which he set between them. He 
retired and brought in the silver trays of sandwiches, 
with caviar and a pomegranate jelly. He brought a 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


109 

bronze pail of ice whence emerged the napkin cloaked 
bottle Sir Humphrey had ordered. 

“Good evening, Saki,” Mrs. Mayfield greeted 
him, as one old friend to another, “will you bring 
me a footstool?” The servant placed a hassock 
beneath one pointed toe and high heel, while she 
settled herself more comfortably, one of her knees 
thrown over the other, and her silken ankles gleam¬ 
ing in the firelight. 

“Let’s save the feast till later,” she said, “I want 
to talk a little.” Sir Humphrey motioned the 
Japanese out, and leaned toward her deferentially. 
“Talk, dear lady,” he begged, “and if it is some¬ 
thing in which I can help,-” A gesture gave 

answer. 

He fumbled in his waistcoat for a flat gold case 
enclosing matches, and drawing his chair close to the 
hearth, picked up the fallen papers one by one. He 
set them alight, each in its turn, holding them like 
blazing torches in his hands till the flames approached 
his fingers. Then he dropped the char-black, spark¬ 
laden ashes upon the hearth, to writhe their last in 
the heat, and lie brittle and dead. 

“I did my last business errand for you to-night, 
Humphrey,” Mrs. Mayfield said. “And you’ve 
been such a good friend to me that it’s very diffi¬ 
cult to tell you why, and to break off.” 

“I am sorry,” he replied. “Is it necessary to 
break off?” 


no 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


"Absolutely,—will you give me one of your ciga¬ 
rettes, please?—For to-night I did the worst thing 
1 have ever done in my life,—I robbed an unsus¬ 
pecting boy who had been entertaining me. I would 
not have believed it of myself, a little while ago. 
But since then,—thanks.” 

She leaned forward and inhaled the soothing flow 
of blended tobacco smoke as her cigarette tip flamed 
on his offered match. Then she settled back once 
more to gaze into the fire, and to watch her exhaled 
cloud of blue, caught in the draught, go swirling up 
the chimney. 

"Since doing that,” she resumed, "1 have had a 
vision of where this life I lead, of luxury and intrigue, 
is taking me. And I don’t like it. Or perhaps I 
like it so much that I’m afraid of it. At any rate, 
I am going to quit it. And since I will be of no 
more use to you, I am bringing you back some of the 
things you have given me, so you will not have lost 
anything on me,—for I like you, Humphrey,—and so 
we may quit even.” 

She unwrapped her package and opened the lid, 
and placed it in his lap. "I know you meant them 
as gifts,” she said, "but if you don’t mind, I’d 
rather not keep them.” 

Sir Humphrey wasted scarcely a glance upon them. 
His eyes were boring into the woman before him, 
shrewdly noting each agitated self-betrayal, and the 
wearied sadness that was be-clouding her eyes. He 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


111 


placed the casket on the floor at her feet. Then he 
rose and stood before her, his back to the fireplace, 
with hands clasped behind him. 

“Even if you were determined to go away and 
never see me again—and I am sure 1 have done noth¬ 
ing to merit that,—1 see no reason why you should 
return these trinkets which I have taken pleasure in 
giving you, and which you have taken pleasure in 
wearing. We are not enemies, but friends, are we 
not?” 

“You mean to be my friend, Humphrey, but cir¬ 
cumstances make you my enemy. Not you, but the 
temptations you represent. I don’t wish to hurt you, 
and I'm afraid you won't understand.” 

“I haven’t built my fortunes on stupidity.” 

“I know that. Well then, perhaps you may 
understand, and I'll tell you. When I first knew you 
I had a modest fortune, and 1 had the thrifty care 
for the future which I’ve inherited from hard work¬ 
ing people, not to spend it. But 1 was alone in the 
world, and loneliness is the most terrible of all afflic¬ 
tions. I craved excitement, gaiety, and friends. 
They cost money. And you helped provide it. I 
craved luxury, and you helped give me it. But 
luxury is a growing appetite. It is more insidious 
and just as deadly, I've come to think, as the appetite 
for any other drug. 1 believe it’s infinitely easier to 
economize from two meals a day to one, than from 


112 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


two automobiles to one. And every diamond that 
one puts on her finger, to sparkle and shine, is a call 
for another for the throat or wrist. I've seen a 
woman buying her one party gown of the year, and 
seen her happy as if she were getting a husband, but 
I never saw a woman buying her twenty-seventh who 
cared very much about it. Her eyes are roving the 
mannequins’ forms for the colour and shape of her 
twenty-eighth.” 

Sir Humphrey chuckled, “So you have decided to 
turn to the simple life,—my dear lady, why mortify 
the flesh? You were not made for sackcloth.” 

“Not at all. I would hate the simple life. If ever 
a woman lived who loved luxury, I am that woman. 
You men can never dream how I want it, or how I 
revel in it. Every refinement of living that I can 
find, I want. All the comforts, all the decorations, 
all the satisfactions of exquisite food and drink, all 
the beauties of clothes and jewels, all the scents of 
perfumes and the sounds of music, all the excite¬ 
ments of all our emotions, all the devices which man 
has invented to lull our troubled bodies, all the diver¬ 
sions of entertainment and thought and pleasant con¬ 
versation,—everything in life in which one can loll 
and stretch and be happy as a cat before a fire, I 
want—and I intend to have.” 

Sir Humphrey's reply was short and to the point. 

“And that leads you right back to me or to some 
other man.” 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


113 

“Well,—not to you, Humphrey. Because under 
the conditions of my association with you I miss the 
greatest luxury of all, the luxury of peace of con¬ 
science. I ply a trade of seduction, but one step 
higher than that of the courtesans,—perhaps not even 
as high,—for I cheat always, whereas they return pay 
for pay. I have not minded much until to-night. 
I've rather taken pleasure in pitting my wits against 
men who were pitted against me. But to-night was 
different, and my moral sense,—you don't have to 
laugh,—there is such a thing as moral sense,—and 
mine had become so blunted by what I have been 
doing that I did something so vile it will torture me 
for a long, long time. In brief, I am ashamed of 
my trade, and I'm going to leave it." 

Sir Humphrey’s shoulders shrugged, but his eyes 
were deadly serious. “A conscience is no luxury, 
Madame. It is an annoying necessity with most men 
because of their early education at the hands of 
women and priests. The luxury is in having 
none." 

“The luxury is in having one that is clear, a luxury 
only the fortunate can afford." Mrs. Mayfield hurled 
her cigarette stub into the flames for emphasis. 

Her companion stepped close to her and towered 
high above her, looking down gently. “The young 
American whom you used to know,—you are in love 
with him once more, is it not so?" 

“1 am in love with no one. I am fond of him, 


ii4 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


even as I am fond of you/' Mrs. Mayfield lied, a 
small white untruth. 

"I wonder.” The rich man leaned down and 
lifted her feet from the hassock. “May I sit at your 
feet, dear lady? I want to tell you a story,—I'll play 
jester or troubadour to your troubled queen.” He 
sat down and looked up at her drooping lashes with 
a quizzical twist at the corners of his mouth. “It’s 
a long story,” he warned her. “You don't mind?” 

By the instinct of women Mrs. Mayfield knew the 
climax of his story, even before it began. She had 
the impulse to escape it, but was too weary to 
flee. 

“I'm glad you've quit the trade,” he said, “for 
I've known a long time you were different from the 
comtesse de Vendome, and those others. For awhile, 
I rated you all together, with only your beauty out¬ 
shining them. You will remember when that was. 
But since then, I have been waiting for you to tell me 
approximately what you have said to-night. Of late 
I've been impatient for it. But years have taught 
me to wait for what I want. 

“Neither you nor anyone else has ever quite under¬ 
stood me, and I've taken first class care that no one 
should. A man who veils himself in mystery is 
always endowed with greater strength than one whose 
character is known. So I've paid well at times for 
silence. I have no friends but you and my secretary 
and Saki, and not a relative in the world. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 115 

"And I am rich,—richer than men dream. I am 
powerful,—more powerful than anyone knows. But 
once I was poor, and my rise to riches began when I 
was a very small boy, and saw my mother bowled 
over by the carriage of a prince. He paid for her 
funeral, out of his royal bounty. I remember the 
white shrouded figure in the darkened room, between 
four flickering candles. I can even recall clinging 
to it and crying, when a man in a black gown pulled 
me away. Well, the prince is dead, too. And I 
own his petty kingdom. His son is in debt to me 
for all he has. 

"How was it all done? By trading, and gambling 
with the devil’s own luck and advance information 
always. My father was a Greek, and the Greeks 
have always been traders. He died before my 
mother, and 1 can only remember what she told me 
about him. Mine is an American career in the old 
world, adapted to old world practices. I am what 
your countrymen call self-made, and still in the mak¬ 
ing, for I am young enough even now to have am¬ 
bitions. 

"You and I seek the same things in life. We 
wish to drain life as one drains a glass of golden 
wine; not brusquely, but staying to inhale the bou¬ 
quet, watch its little jewels form and rise and disap¬ 
pear; to taste, and in tasting to whet the sense for a 
deep, long draught that shall satisfy the thirst 
aroused. We wish life’s luxury, that which I saw 


n6 THE HEART OF SALOME 

going by,—far, far above me as a little boy, and 
vowed I’d have. 

“Well, I’ve fought for it, by force and intrigue, 
with whatever weapon came to hand, the long, un¬ 
even fight of a peasant rising in one brief life to 
the top of Europe’s age-hardened society. No mat¬ 
ter how. 

“1 don’t want to weary you with details. But I’ve 
learned the one thing man will always buy. I’ve 
made it and sold it to him. I learned that whatever 
else in life may vanish and disappear from this old 
world of ours, one thing lasts eternally,—and that is 
war. One thing man will always have, and that is 
weapons. Men want. They fight for what they 
want. With stones, with spears, with arrows, with 
catapults, and barrel-shaped cannon of bronze or 
wood, with axes and swords, and rifles, with machine 
guns, and long range guns, with aeroplanes, tanks, 
and battleships, by wireless and by poison gas, 
advancing from weapon to weapon as age follows 
age,—ever and always, men fight. There are brief 
truces, and short terms of peace. These are inter¬ 
ruptions. But if you look back through history you 
find that the normal state of mankind is war. When 
men are not fighting a war they are preparing for 
one or paying for one, and just now they are doing 
all three. And chiefly they pay me. 

“You’ve heard of munition makers m various 
countries, France, England, Austria, Germany, Italy, 


THE HEART OF SALOME 117 

and old Russia. You hear their names. I am part 
of all of them and dominant in some. Whoever 
wins, 1 win. And because I have won so largely, 
I have stepped into the business which will be the 
munition business of the next war,—the war in the 
sir,—the oil production business, and it is there for 
the first time I have clashed with your friends in 
America, the Gulf Company. 

‘Til beat them, for money always wins. And I 
am richer than they. I can stand on the shore of the 
sea by their side, and throw dollar for dollar with 
them into the waters, and when they’ve thrown away 
their last silver coin, my pile will not be seriously 
diminished.” 

Sir Humphrey rose and paced the hearth, back and 
forth. He gestured with quick punching gestures 
into the empty air, as if it held his antagonists before 
him. 

“And to what end is all this?” he asked her, as 
if phrasing her question. “I will drink the headiest 
wine of all, the plaudits of the crowds, the homage of 
subjects. I will be one of the kings 1 saw ride 
forth in my boyhood, when I was a ragged 
urchin on the streets of—no matter where. It’s no 
fantastic dream, but my logical goal that I am 
approaching. For the world is in an era of swift 
convulsions. Penniless journalists and pamphleteers 
are ruling the hordes of Russia with as iron a hand 
as ever their great Peter. A shoe-maker’s son is the 


n8 THE HEART OF SALOME 

nominal head of the old German empire, and the 
widow of an American tin-plate maker has been the 
real power in the land where Pericles once gave* 
orders and the Parthenon arose. 

'The descendants of kings are weak, where their 
ancestors, who carved out their kingdoms with sword 
and axe were strong. I am such a man as founds 
kingdoms, not one who inherits them. I could have 
had a petty principality before now. But 1 will have 
an empire.” 

He dropped once more upon the foot-stool before 
her, and his two hands were clasped upon her knees. 
His eyes were shining with the vision of his dream, 
and the glory of combat. “And you,—you, Diane, 
—are the accompaniment of all my longings. You 
walk as queen through all the scenes of grandeur, 
the fetes, the reviews, the pomps, which are almost 
within my clasp. You are the goddess to whom the 
barefoot boy has dared aspire,—and not with the hope 
of bribing you. It is not for a temptation that I 
have told you of my wealth, and my greater future, 
—it is that you might know me better, in a hope that 
somehow, seeing into my heart, you might sym¬ 
pathize,—and after a little while learn to love me.— 
To one person alone in all this world I bow in re¬ 
spect, and admiration,—one person only has all the 
love that I possess,—and that is you.” 

His eyes were storming hers beseechingly and his 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


119 


hands clasped both of hers together. The massive 
head with its crown of bronze flecked with grey bent 
over her fingers, and he kissed them. "Do you 
think you will be able to love me, Diane ?” 


CHAPTER VII 

The light from the fire was low, and the room was 
still; so still that Mrs. Mayfield could hear the beat¬ 
ing of her heart. The red embers that glowed upon 
the broad grate were dimmed before her eyes, and one 
large, round tear escaped the imprisonment of her 
flickering lashes, and coursed like a straying drop of 
dew down the peach-bloom softness of her cheek. 
She released one hand from his grasp, gently, and 
brushed it aside. Then her tapering white fingers 
fluttered down like butterflies to rest upon his head, 
and she ran her hand through his rough mane with a 
slow caress which held just the trace of a plea for 
delay, a morsel of tenderness to satisfy his hunger 
while she summoned all her guards against him. 

Her voice was little more than a whisper when she 
spoke. “Humphrey, mon cher ami!” 

The Titan knew he had stirred her deeply, and with 
the wisdom to wait kept silence. The minutes ticked 
their even measure, one after another, till the sense of 
some alien coolness, a breath of wind, perhaps, stir¬ 
ring the portieres at the open window, a shadow even 
120 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


121 


in the twilight of their room, caused the man to raise 
his head and look apprehensively from her. And 
watching him, she saw his eyes blaze. His face grew 
red. As he sprang to his feet she followed his gaze. 

Towering above them, scarcely six feet away poised 
cat-like as if to spring from the even balance of feet 
set widely apart, his lips drawn down with scorn, and 
his eyes hard with hate, stood the American who had 
been entertained there but the evening before, Monte 
Carroll. 

"You intrude/' snapped Sir Humphrey. 

The American’s voice was level and cool and stern. 
"I ask nobody’s pardon for intrusion here,” he said. 
"Monsieur Lecouvreur, alias Sir Humphrey Leinster, 
alias whatever other name fits the uses of a scoundrel.” 

"Monte,” Mrs. Mayfield cried. 

He turned to her and a shade of his coolness 
vanished. "Diane,” he mocked her bitterly. "Mrs. 
Mayfield—the noted beauty of Paris—the Mayfield— 
as the Ritz bar calls you—Great God!” There was 
an odd catch in his voice, and his eyes closed for a 
swift instant. 

Sir Humphrey took two rapid steps toward a bell 
upon the fireplace mantel, but the invader was too 
quick for him. His feet flashed forward and his 
body swept through the space between them. His 
hand shot out and clutched the financier’s throat. 
He shook Sir Humphrey as a big dog would shake a 
rat, then dropped him, limp, upon the floor. 


122 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


"I've already taken some risks in getting here. 
But plotters of your stripe, Sir Humphrey, should 
not have trellises leading to their study windows. 
Their grounds should be patrolled by someone who 
isn't sleepy. Now you'll stay where you are while 1 
talk to you." The invader swung around to face the 
woman. "You sit down," he ordered her, and she 
obeyed. 

"I’ve come to recover stolen property," he said. 
"Back home I've left a boy, a child before a pair like 
you two, crying at the wreck of his career in the secret 
service,—wrecked by a nice American girl, whom he 
mistakenly trusted. You’re not dealing with a child 
now. And I’ve come for what you stole." 

Sir Humphrey was getting to his feet. 

"Stay there," snapped Carroll. "You’re safer 
there. I’ll get them if they’re in the room. If not, 
you’ll walk to them with a pistol in the small of your 
back to keep you orderly." 

He reached to his hip pocket and pulled out a 
small, black automatic, which he balanced lightly in 
the palm of one hand. 

“Apache” sneered his fallen antagonist. "You’ll 
mourn this night." 

"Perhaps. Are you ready to give me what I 
want?" 

The man on the floor laughed tauntingly. <r And if 
I am not?" 

His foe’s tones brooked no disbelief. "Then some 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


123 


of your own precious cut-throats in Anatolia have 
given me examples of how to handle you to get 
them out of you 

“Canaille,” Sir Humphrey spat. “They are 
there.” He motioned to the ashes of paper upon the 
grate. The American backed over to them, and rest¬ 
ing on one knee examined them for surfaces which 
had been sufficiently wrapped from the air to escape 
the destroying fire. He found enough to satisfy him 
that Sir Humphrey spoke truly. 

He rose, and standing on the rug before the fire 
looked down at Sir Humphrey, who was sitting cross- 
legged like a Turk, hands clasped in his lap, his 
composure recovered. 

“Beaten in this round,” Carroll admitted, “though 
the proofs of your rascality which were upon paper 1 
have all in my mind. Now before I go 1 want to tell 
you something. Before long the few Americans who 
are working in the Near East will be like an army. 
They will be building railroads, and mining copper, 
and digging oil. The land is not yours. We have 
beaten you fairly and squarely for the concession. 
And I want to warn you. You keep your assassins 
off our lines, and your hired trouble-makers out of our 
camps. We don't like to play business that way. 

*‘But if we are forced to it, it will be infinitely 
easier to catch you some dark night and to hang you 
higher than Haman, the law in our own hands, than 
to submit to your usual method of killing thousands 


124 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


of innocent peasants and workmen in a war of nations 
to gain your ends or ours. We know the graves of 
two or three of our engineers were dug by your men, 
and their blood is on your head. We have enough 
on you to justify our State Department in sending 
marines to protect our rights. But they couldn’t get 
at you, a million miles from a battle-front. So I per¬ 
sonally am telling you this,—the next time we catch 
you killing our men, we'll kill you. Do you under¬ 
stand?" 

"Thoroughly," spoke Sir Humphrey softly, then 
he jumped to his feet. 

The rug beneath Carroll's feet had been snatched 
from under him, and he had fallen in a heap. Saki, 
the Japanese butler, and Critchlow, Sir Humphrey's 
secretary, were upon him like terriers, and although 
his hand reached for the pistol which had flown from 
his grasp, Sir Humphrey's foot was upon it. Saki 
had yanked the coat from his shoulders, and draw¬ 
ing it tight behind his back had pinioned his arms. 

“Alors,” exulted the master plotter, "we will deal 
with this unlicked cub." 

"I saw the vines broken on the garden trellis, your 
lordship," said Critchlow, "and the marks of feet in 
the loam. The concierge was asleep upon a garden 
bench. He is drunk." 

"Dismiss him," ordered Sir Humphrey, "but first 
get a strap or a cord, and tie this man securely." He 
turned to the Mayfield who was standing back from 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


125 

the melee, her eyes riveted upon the prone figure of 
her girlhood sweetheart. One of her hands was 
clutching at her throat, the other grasping the chair 
from which she had arisen, and which was toppled 
back against the study table. 

“Here is a pretty toy,” laughed Sir Humphrey, 
handing her Carroll’s pistol. “Did you ever use 
one?” 

She took the pistol, her heart leaping, and clenched 
it tightly in her fist. Sir Humphrey had turned back 
to his prostrate enemy and kicked him, while Saki sat 
astride the broad back, clutching the twisted coat that 
rendered him helpless. 

“Oh, don’t,” pleaded the woman, with a low moan. 
But Sir Humphrey did not hear her. 

Raging, with the marks of Carroll’s strong hands 
still at his throat, and smarting beneath the indignity 
of having been tossed contemptuously upon the floor 
after his shaking, he was piling epithets upon his 
defenceless antagonist, till Critchlow brought a strap 
from an adjoining room. 

“Take him out and thrash him soundly, Saki,” he 
commanded. “Strip his back and let him feel the 
lash. Rub salt in his wounds. Sale Bete!” He 
choked and became almost inarticulate in his wrath. 

The Mayfield quietly slipped over to a farther wall, 
and turned the switch that flooded the room with 
light. 


126 THE HEART OF SALOME 

“Stop” she screamed. Her hands were behind 
her back. 

Sir Humphrey wheeled on her savagely. ‘This 
is no place for women to interfere/’ he said. 'Til 
be obeyed.” 

“You were ready to give me so much a few minutes 
ago,” she pleaded reproachfully. “Now when 1 ask 
for so little-” 

“Are you loyal to him or to me?” Sir Humphrey 
demanded, then a crafty light shone from his eyes. 
“And you never answered what I asked. What is 
your answer?” 

The girl was silent a long minute while the three 
captors gazed at her, waiting. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, softly, “but my answer 
would have to be ‘no/ ” 

Sir Humphrey chuckled mirthlessly. “1 thought 
so,” he rasped. “You were in love with this animal 
here.” He swung his foot again and kicked his 
prostrate foe. 

Firmly the voice of the Mayfield rang through the 
room. “That will be all of that,” she stated. “You 
will all three put your hands high above your heads 
quickly, or I’ll shoot.” 

Sir Humphrey, Critchlow and Saki looked at her in 
amazement, and found themselves staring into the 
muzzle of the automatic pistol, which she held straight 
before her, traversing it slightly by the motion of her 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


127 

wrist to cover the three of them. Her face was pale, 
and her green eyes shot angry fire. 

"You would not dare," began Sir Humphrey, but 
she took a step forward and menaced him with her 
weapon. "Two seconds more and you’ll learn," she 
cried, and one slim toe stamped the floor. Sir 
Humphrey’s hands went up above his head. 

"You too," she ordered the two employes. "Get 
up, Saki." They obeyed her. 

"Now," she said. "Mr. Starrett and I are going 
away from here. Monte, you will find another re¬ 
volver in the desk drawer." 

"It has paid you well to be in my employ," shot 
Sir Humphrey, "what between gifts from me and 
gifts from others, I have put in your way. You will 
find it doesn't pay you so well to cross me." 

"I’ll have to chance it, Humphrey," she replied. 
"If you had only granted me my little request this 
would not have happened. I thought you really 
loved me." 

"Pah!" He spat his futile anger. 

Carroll had ransacked the drawers of the desk and 
come upon his weapon. He examined it and found 
it loaded in every chamber. 

"Now we’ll line ’em up and march ’em out ahead of 
me, Diane," he said. "You go first, and lead the way. 
Line up, you three, and stretch those hands for the 
ceiling." He barked the order like a drill sergeant. 


128 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


The woman led the way through splendid salon 
and lofty halls, till the outer door to the drive was 
reached. “We’d better take them out into the gar¬ 
den/’ she said. 

“Right you are,” said Monte. They led their 
prisoners into the open air. Before the high iron 
gateway they halted them. Carroll pulled open his 
revolver, and knocked all the cartridges from the 
cylinder into his hand. 

“I guess this belongs to you. Mister,” he said to 
Sir Humphrey, and tossed it on the ground at his feet. 
“Mind what I told you, now. If you kill any of our 
men, we’ll have to step on you like a snake.” 

Mrs. Mayfield withdrew the bolt in the gate, and 
together they strode quickly out into the street. She 
clutched his arm and broke into a run at the curb. 
The tiny red light at the back of a taxi was glowing 
some yards up the street, and she started for it. 
“Taxi!” she gasped to him, and he ran beside her. 

The taxi’s flag was up, and its fat chauffeur was 
puffing a peaceful pipe, when the Mayfield opened 
its door and climbed in. 

“Where to?” asked Carroll, standing on the kerb. 

“You’re coming.” It was half request and half 
command. 

“A little way,” he answered gravely. 

“Bois de Boulogne,” she said, and as he seated 
himself at her side the machine lurched into motion. 

The pistol slipped from Mrs. Mayfield’s limp grasp, 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


129 


and she lay back against the upholstering and 
laughed, and laughed, until the tears came. Then 
she sobbed a little, and laughed again. 

“Buck up, Diane. You were marvellous.” 
Carroll’s arm stretched out to pat her farther shoul¬ 
der, and she nestled into it with a sigh, then rested 
her head against him. She felt him grow tense and 
aloof at her touch. 

“Oh, stay a minute, please,” she begged. “Pm 
no ogress. I won’t hurt you. Haven’t I just helped 
you when you needed me?” Her voice held re¬ 
proach. 

They rolled without a word past street after street, 
and out into the tree darkened avenues of the “bois.” 

“You were marvellous, Diane,” he admitted, “but 
foolish. You have quarrelled with your—your—pro¬ 
tector, and I guess he spoke truly. He would be a 
bad man for a woman to cross. I don’t see why you 
did it.” 

“No,” was her bitter comment. “You wouldn’t. 
Well, in a few minutes, before you leave me, I’ll help 
you again, and then I guess we’ll part. That’s what 
you wanted, wasn’t it? It takes two to be friends, 
not one.” 

He did not answer, but his hand closed tightly 
upon her shoulder, till she winced, and stirred. Then 
he lifted his arm entirely from her, and they sat 
apart, bolt upright. 



130 THE HEART OF SALOME 

“Dan’s dead/’ she said at length. “Did you 
know it?” 

“No, when?” 

“A few weeks ago. So now I can do one other 
thing to help you that I couldn’t have till recently. 
We were talking last night about that card game in 
the Colony Club, you remember?” 

“Yes.” 

“I told you I had never believed you guilty, in 
fact, I knew you were innocent. Well, to-morrow 
you’ll find in your room a letter which you can take 
home some time to the governors of the Copley Club, 
with the proofs of your innocence. You can be re¬ 
instated, and come back to life, with all the old dis¬ 
grace wiped out.” 

“Yes?” 

“Dan framed you, Monte.” 

“I’ve always known it, but I never could prove it.” 

“I’ve always known it, but it was some time before 
I could prove it. Then Molly Manning told me 
about it. She was one of Dan’s affairs. You didn’t 
know that, did you?” 

“I’d heard it.” 

“Molly passed him a cold deck with your extra king 
in it. They had it all fixed up before the game began. 
She would have done anything for him then. But 
a little later her husband divorced her. Dan didn’t 
stick by her, so she came to me and sold me the 
information. I've her signature under it, and she’s 


THE HEART OF SALOME 131 

working in a Boston broker's office and will back it 
up." 

"Yes?" He was not looking at her, but far away, 
and by the moodiness of his expression, she could 
tell his thoughts were not pleasant ones. 

"You’re thinking that I’ve held this information a 
long time," she divined. 

"Seven years, about." 

"Seven years for a purpose. It could do you no 
good. For giving it to you would simply have been 
dropping you from one disgrace into another, and 
incidentally would have ruined me too." 

"What do you mean?" 

There was a long silence before she answered him, 
and when she did, her voice was hesitant at first, then 
hardened with the resolution to go on. 

"There was one other thing we talked about last 
night. Do you remember it?" 

"Yes." 

"Dan knew just enough about that night of ours 
together so that he could have presented a fair case 
for divorce. He had been having me trailed for 
some time, only 1 didn’t know it. And the night I 
lured you to Point-aux-Pines, some of his sneaky 
little detectives followed us. I suspect it was they 
who stole the car and left us marooned there for the 
night. Naturally they were being paid to get evi¬ 
dence, and if there wasn’t any they’d make some,’’ 


132 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


“You never told me about that.” 

“I didn’t know about it till the night after the game 
at the Colony Club.—Ugh!” (She shuddered.) 
“Dan was a fiend. You say you’ll never forget that 
night. Neither will I. For when it was over, and 
Dan had taken me home, he stripped off his mask of 
being complacent at the way things were going.—He 
showed me just how ugly a man can be.—And we 
fought,—Dan had all the weapons and all the cards, 
—God, I was frightened!—And I had nothing but 
a bluff, and my faith in you, and his own guilty 
conscience. And I won.” 

“You always were a fighter,” he paid her un¬ 
grudging tribute. 

“1 was a fighter then. But I was fighting caught 
in a trap, and anyone fights caught that way,—even 
rats. I don’t ask credit. Only that is why you’ve 
never heard of the frame-up till now. You know that 
Dan and I never lived together,—really,—as man and 
wife, after the first few weeks of our marriage.” 
(There was a ring of metal in the Mayfield’s voice.) 
“After,—as you once told me,—I’d paid the price of 
my riches,—I’ve paid the price, Monte, several times. 
For Dan loved women. And although I let him run 
his gait, he wanted me. No man will ever know what 
real terror is. Of course you’ve been in a war, but in 
a war there’s at least the delusion of glory,—and the 
comfort of public honour.—But in a war such as 
women sometimes fight, there’s nothing clean about 


THE HEART OF SALOME 133 

it,—it has to be secret,—there’s ridicule in it,—and 
locked doors, with trembling and fear on one side, and 
a drunken beast, hammering, and clawing, and plead¬ 
ing, and reviling, and whining on the other side. 
I’ve paid the price of whatever I gained by my 
marriage to Dan Mayfield.—I've paid!—Why, the 
open battle,—the clean-cut issue,—of the night when 
he told me 1 would either be his wife or he would 
divorce me, and name you, who had just then been 
publicly disgraced, as the co-respondent, was only 
one of countless fights I had with him,—but I won 
them, every one.” 

“He couldn’t have won a divorce,” Monte inter¬ 
jected. “He couldn't have gone into court With 
clean hands himself. You would have been just as 
likely,—more likely,—to have won the decree.” 

“He could have won enough. He could have bared 
all my wretchedness to the laughter of the world,— 
the world on the streets and in the stores, and theatres, 
and trolley cars. The world is unfair, Monte, and it 
loves to fasten evil upon women. Can you imagine 
what the newspapers would have done with that case, 
before it had dragged its course? The columns and 
columns of tawdry 'smut'—the pictures, the innuen¬ 
does, the sensations, the headlines,—with you a recent 
Harvard captain,—and then that Copley Club thing 
—which never did get into print, but which the 
‘muckers’ would have loved to feast on as a high 
society scandal? That was what he had to threaten 


134 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


me with,—and you. Nobody but our own little 
world knew of the injustice to you. Nobody but a 
few people realized that Dan and 1 weren't com¬ 
placently half-married, like so many. He threatened 
me with disgrace. And Monte,—all the schooling 
of society goes to place a higher value on reputation 
than on honour,—did you ever realize that?" 

“But you beat him." 

“By a bluff that hit straight home,—by a wild guess 
that happened to be the truth,—perhaps by intuition, 
that mysterious sixth sense that saves women so often. 
I knew you couldn't have cheated. And I knew Dan 
was capable of anything. So I told him he might 
reveal me as an unfaithful wife, but I would drum him 
out of every club in Boston, and show him up before 
all his business and social associates as a man who 
would frame another at cards. And he turned white. 
He reeled as if I had hit him. Then he tried to bluff, 
himself, but I knew I had him, and I went farther. 
I must have been clairvoyant in that crisis, Monte. 

I told him I would show up not only him, but his 
associate, and that I'd ruin him and her. I knew he 
and Molly were running wild together, and that she 
was on the loose, anyway, and I just put two and 
two together and they made five. And the more he 
wanted to know what proof I had, or could have, and 
the more he stamped and stormed, and said 1 was 
crazy, the more I knew I was right. And I backed 
him clear off the boards, though it wasn't until he and 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


135 


Molly split that 1 really did get my proof. And 
that was the club which I held over him to his dying 
day, so that he couldn’t divorce me, just as he held 
several clubs over me, so that I couldn’t divorce 
him. We were checkmates, until he died a few 
weeks ago, and now I’m free.” 

She stretched her arms, wide and high above her 
head, and her embrace took in the pure, fresh out-of- 
doors, and her voice was exalted. "Free,” she cried. 
"I am my own, and no man has the slightest claim 
on me. What a wonderful difference death can make. 
I’ve often thought it would be my death that would 
set me free, but now I’m free and alive, and life— 
life is wonderful.” 

Then she cried a little, so that the man beside her 
was stirred and placed his hand over hers, and said, 
"I’m glad that such a horror has left you, Diane, 
and more sorry for you than I have ever been for 
any living thing.” 

She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “I 
don’t want your pity,” she flashed. “Take me 
home.” 

She rapped on the window before them, and lean¬ 
ing out the door, gave the address. The car swung 
around. 

They were silent a long while before she spoke 
again, until they were bowling over the cobbled 
streets of Passy near her home. 


136 THE HEART OF SALOME 

“When you drop me at my door/' she said, “you 
can say good-bye to your bad woman friend. You 
will get my letter to-morrow, with Molly’s note in it, 
—my last proof of friendship. There’s one thing I 
wish you would do, and that fs, see your little sister. 
She’s come to Paris particularly to see you. What¬ 
ever your relations may be with the rest of the family, 
the little sister always was a hero worshipper of yours. 
It wouldn’t be quite generous to hide from her." 

Mi’ll see her," he promised. 

“Splendid." She rested one hand lightly upon his 
knees and moved very close to him. “Excuse me if 
I don’t talk any more. It’s rather embarrassing to 
have offered a man so much or so little, and to have 
been uniformly refused. But I’ll just take this last 
few minutes remembering better days." 

Mingled with the ache in her heart at what seemed 
to be a parting, was a faint gleam of hope that would 
not be darkened. When all men but one fell at her 
feet, how could this one escape her entirely? She 
could not—would not believe it. 

“Before I leave him, I must leave some longing 
with him that shall bring him back," she thought to 
herself, and then was swept with a feeling of hopeless¬ 
ness. He was so strong, and so adamant before her. 
But she knew that his hardness had been donned like 
armour to cover a bruised heart, and to prevent his 
being hurt again. Her mother instinct of tenderness 
made her long to wipe out by caresses all the bitterness 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


137 

within him. Her cheek furtively rubbed against his 
shoulder. 

The sound of his voice almost startled her, so wrapt 
was she in her reverie. “I don't want you to think 
I’m ungrateful/' he said, “Diane, for all you've done 
for me. You probably saved me a pretty rough ex¬ 
perience to-night. Perhaps you saved my life, and 
thank you for telling me of Dan’s frame-up. But I'm 
going to leave you, as I told you last night,—despite 
all that you've done for me since,—because it’s the 
only wise thing to do. Our lives have been inter¬ 
twined too much and too closely for me to be just 
your friend. And besides the past, I don’t have to 
tell you that you're the sort of woman to whom a 
man can't remain just a friend.” 

“No?” 

Her tone was that of well-bred interest, quite 
detached from emotion, but quick thrills were pass¬ 
ing through her at renewed hope of triumph. 

“No,—and you know it. Least of all can I, who 
have not only your present loveliness to contend with, 
-” his head was averted, and he gazed far off be¬ 
yond any view from a taxi window,—his voice was 
suddenly husky and low, “but that wonderful girl, 
Diane Barrett.” 

She leaned closer. “Now that's more like my old 
Monte,—that pretty speech.” 

He whirled on her savagely. “Damn it,” he 
snapped. “Pm not trying to flatter you. I'm just 


138 THE HEART OF SALOME 

telling you why I’m going to leave you in five min¬ 
utes and never see you again.” 

The taxi came to a stop before the door of her 
apartment. "Go on,” she said. "These drivers are 
trained, and he’ll wait.” 

"I have all the memories of our past to fight,” he 
went on. "And I’ve trampled them and fled from 
them for eight years,—and if it’s any compliment to 
you, you may take it,—they’re still with me, as 
strong, some of them, as if they were yesterdays.” 
By the light above her door she could see that his 
face was drawn and pale. 

"So I’ll make an honest confession,” he said 
bitterly, "and leave you that to take what pride you 
may in it. I know that if I stayed near you, it would 
be only a little while before every bit of my old love, 
—and longing,—and passion,—for you would return. 
And then there’d be hell.” 

"Why would there, Monte?” 

He was silent a long minute, and shifted uneasily. 
"Oh, never mind,—you’ve done too much for me, 
for me to hurt you, even if you did once hurt me.” 

"Go on and tell me.” 

"Because I’ll never marry you,—how egotistical 
that sounds! But I believe I could. And I’ll never 
take you any other way. And I know I could have 
once. A man,—a man with any tradition, breeding, 
or honour,—doesn’t marry for himself alone. There’s 
only one basis for marriage, and that’s children. So 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


139 

however much I love—however much I might love a 
woman-" His words broke off. 

“Please tell me/' she pleaded. 

He laughed, and the laugh was as distant from 
merriment as the moon from the sun. “Why should 
I? You're a brainy woman, Diane. Think back a 
little. There's a nice boy at home where I'm going, 
whom you’ve robbed. However wonderful the May- 
field may be as a picture in the salon and the toast of 
Paris, one does not make the—the daughter, shall we 
say,—of M. Lecouvreur, the mother of his children, 
nor part of the inherited blood of a family in which 
he takes pride,—even though the family takes no 
pride in him." 

The girl recoiled. “I see," she said, and her words 
were gasping as if she were caught in some powerful 
grip that was strangling the breath from her body. 
“So it's good-bye." 

“I'm afraid so." 

“Do—do you mind kissing me before we go?" 

“I don’t think that would be very sensible." 

“But you will, won't you?" 

He turned his head slowly toward her, and looked 
down into her eyes. And her two arms stole upward 
over his shoulders, like two timorous white mice ex¬ 
ploring a warm and welcome retreat in the darkness, 
till they met and clasped behind him. Her face was 
tipped back like a flower that drinks the sun. He 
lowered his head, and her half-opened lips rose soft 


140 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


and warm and sweet to lie against his. A little sigh 
escaped her, and her lips moved to shape his name in 
a low, almost inarticulate murmur. Then she felt his 
arms enfolding her, while one of hers encircling his 
neck was drawing them closer and closer together. 
With one roving hand she was recalling long for¬ 
gotten caresses, rumpling his thick, dark hair, and 
straying down his cheek to draw his lips even more 
tightly against hers so that none of the joy they were 
instilling in her should escape. Now she was caught 
so tightly in his arms that she was sure her heart, that 
hammered against his breast as hard and fast as if 
rivetting them eternally into one, would be crushed in 
the splintering frame of a broken body, and she was 
fiercely, hotly glad. Till her head was whirling, and 
fell back, away from his lips that burned and pur¬ 
sued, and all her ardent, lithe, young muscles that 
had so strained against him dropped limp in his em¬ 
brace, and she was stirred and shaken,—and suddenly 
afraid. 

"Monte!” she pleaded, hiding her face in his 
shoulder. He released her brusquely, whirled from 
her, and opened the door of the cab. He stepped out 
upon the kerb and she followed swiftly. 

"Thank you, Monte,”—she held out her hand. 
"I'm glad I've had a chance to know you again if 
only for this little while.” Her eyes held mockery 
that belied her emotion. "I'll bid you good-bye, 
now.” Her hand was still extended. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


141 


The man before her drew himself up rigidly,—his 
fists were clenched at his sides, and his eyes burned. 
His face was pale, his voice was a whisper. 

"I hate you.” 

She laughed. “No, you don’t, Monte. You love 
me, and you’ll never forget me. Good-bye!” And 
she fled to her door. Ringing the bell she turned. 
Monte Carroll was striding fast down the street. 


CHAPTER VIII 

"He will come back/' said the Mayfield to herself, 
but the days went by and he did not. 

The day after their last passionate meeting, she 
mailed him a note. It enclosed Molly Manning’s 
proof of his innocence of the charges upon which he 
had been disgraced at the Copely Club, with a word 
of her own to further his case, and a little personal 
letter, giving the address of his sister, Madge, and 
his aunt, and her wish for his good luck wherever 
life’s road should carry him. 

A day later, she received in the mail a note con¬ 
sisting of his card, on the back of which was scrawled, 

“Thanks, Diane,-Monte.” Such a few words, 

on so little a scrap! But for days she carried it 
with her, and in moments of solitude drew it forth, 
and turned it over and over between her fingers, and 
read it again and again. 

Once, with the sharp point of the little silver pencil 
she carried in her vanity case she traced faintly a 
142 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


143 


little “S” after the “Mr.” of “Mr. Montgomery 
Carroll/' and whispered the result to herself. She 
blushed because she had not outgrown such things, 
and recalled how at one stage of their childhood she 
had signed herself thus, as a delicious secret which 
only they two understood, upon surreptitious notes. 

And still he did not come. She was done with Sir 
Humphrey, and she must pick up the unravelled 
threads of her life, and splice them together again, 
and carry on. So she began to roam the shops and 
buy feverishly, frocks that she did not want except 
for the moment, because they were very beautiful. 
Several times on the rue de Rivoli and rue de la 
Paix she turned swiftly to look behind her, with the 
uncomfortable sensation that she was being followed. 
Sir Humphrey had wanted her badly, she knew, and 
she wondered what he would do to her for her open 
defiance, and for her alliance with his foe. He was 
not a gentle character, in warfare, trading, diplomacy, 
or love, she realized. 

But she was not afraid. Any minor ill that might 
befall her was as nothing before the haunting peril 
that Monte, stubborn and hard, and fighting against 
the spell which he knew she wished to cast over him, 
would never come back to her. 

“He must—he must," she whispered to her mirror 
time and again. 

There was the distraction of an automobile to buy. 


144 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


for Sir Humphrey’s fleet of cars was no longer at her 
call. It was fun to buy the finest that could be made, 
with a tonneau especially tailored to fit her piquant 
personality, upon the Hispano-Suiza chassis with its 
great aeroplane engine, that could roar like a lion or 
purr like a cat, and go at any pace from that of a 
turtle to that of the fastest express train, without a 
vibration, and carrying her in its deep upholstery as 
gently as the most precious of all freights should be 
carried; while people turned flatteringly to regard its 
glory. Within it she could stretch out her hand and 
toy with the dozen accessories of mirrors and little 
cupboards for holding rouge and powder, or its ash 
tray or cigarette lighter, and sink her slippers deep 
into its fur rug, and whisper through the telephone 
to the ear of her driver out of doors, for it was a town 
car that she had built. 

There were, as always, the concerts and the 
theatres, and numerous swains, and dining at Ciro’s, 
and tea-ing at Claridge’s, and dancing at the 
Peroguet or the "400” Club. There was the grow¬ 
ing romance to watch of that sweet boy, Hubert 
Mainwaring, with Monte’s sister, Madge. That was 
a delight, for she was fond of them both. 

But mostly, for comfort and the oblivion of her 
griefs, there was the sunny attic studio of Henri 
Bezanne, that mystic poet-painter, who had been a 
tool in her hands in the regrettable victimizing of 
young Redfern. She had discovered that his mother 


THE HEART OF SALOME 145 

and cat were “dears,” and that Henri was so 
supremely happy in painting her beauty that he did 
not try to make love to her. 

She had found amazing comfort there the very day 
after Monte left her, with his whispered “I hate 
you,” and the wonder of his lips lying in memory 
upon hers, and the ache of his strong arms holding 
her tightly. 

As she had promised Henri, she took a taxi that 
very next afternoon, and rode over to the left bank 
of the Seine and up the boulevard Montparnasse to 
the very peak of the Quartier Latin where in a dingy 
building his genius was housed. 

Six flights of stairs without an elevator, she 
climbed, a circular, dimly lit stairway with its 
plastered walls scribbled over, and their paint peel¬ 
ing off, where grubby urchins regarded her in amaze¬ 
ment, and where the odour of Latin cooking was 
pungent in the air. 

She pressed the bell at the side of a heavy black 
oak door, and it echoed loudly within. A little old 
woman, grey and bent, opened the door. A tiny 
white lace cap perched on her decently combed sparse 
hair. Her face was very much wrinkled and a tight 
black velvet basque outlined her sagging bust. She 
wore a clean white apron over a shabby skirt. 

“Madame,” she asked. 

“I came to see Monsieur Henri Bezanne,” said 
Mrs. Mayfield. 


146 THE HEART OF SALOME 

The little old woman bade her enter. The room 
was dazzling with sunlight as compared to the dusk 
in the hall. Bezanne was off to one side from the 
door, standing back two paces from his easel. In 
one arm was his palette, and poised in an outstretched 
hand was a long wand-like brush. He placed them 
both hastily down upon the floor, and rushed forward 
to meet her. 

He clasped both her hands in his, and leaning 
down, kissed them, one after the other. “Madame, 
the beautiful/’ he cried, “and good as your 
promise.” He turned to the little wrinkled lady. 
“C’est la Mayfield, Maman,” he told her, “la plus 
belle de toutes les femmes dans Paris.” 

Still clasping one of Mrs. Mayfield’s hands, he 
turned to his mother, and took one of hers. “You 
must know each other,” he said. “The most beau¬ 
tiful and the most good.” He laughed. “The only 
two women in my life!” 

“I have brought her here from Avignon,” he told 
his visitor, “since you were last here to sit for me. 
I was lonely, and Maman was lonely too, for I really 
believe she loves me even if she does scold me 
terribly.” 

The little lady smiled. “A child incorrigible, 
Madame. You must not believe all he says. Will 
you be seated?” 

She shuffled off in her over-sized slippers to the side 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


147 


of the room; there she emptied a small rocker of a 
pile of wooden frames, whereon were tightly stretched 
canvasses. Picking the chair up, she scrubbed its 
cane seat with a cloth, and brought it forward. 

“You must not wait on me,” Mrs. Mayfield 
chided, taking the chair from her. Then Diane no¬ 
ticed that on the other side of the room, mounted 
upon a low platform was a woman in a ragged dress, 
whose hair streamed down over one bare shoulder. 
She was holding a nursing babe to her breast, and 
regarding them not at all. 

“You were working, Henri,” she noted. “Keep 
on, and I’ll just sit and chatter a little while, and 
then run along.” 

“Mais, non!” he protested. “I was working, 
and I will work some more on this model later. She 
is a neighbour from downstairs. Do you think I 
would have you here without at least a sketch,—even 
a sketch of one of your white hands. Always when 
you are near, I itch to draw or paint you.” 

He turned to the woman, and they spoke in liquid 
Italian. The model rose, re-arranged her waist about 
her shoulders and tossed her long hair back behind 
her head. She stepped down from the platform, all 
without disturbing the baby, whose fuzzy round head 
the woman’s eyes never left. 

“Oh let me see?” the Mayfield asked, and stepped 
swiftly to her side. Then the woman lifted her eyes, 


148 THE HEART OF SALOME 

and the visitor saw they were large and deep and 
dark, and they shone with pride till their natural 
beauty was enhanced many times. The model 
turned so that this fair aristocrat who had suddenly 
dropped down from the world far above her home 
might see what a wonderful thing had come to her. 
The lady might compare it with her own, if she had 
any, which was doubtful, for she was too slender and 
her beautiful face held in its inquiring smile no trace 
of that understanding which can pass so swiftly be¬ 
tween mothers. 

'‘He’s a dear,” said the Mayfield to the mother, 
and as her fair face swept down to kiss the tiny cheek, 
there was that trace of moisture in her eyes that led 
the mother to look on the lady with compassion. 

Mrs. Mayfield reached out one little finger and in¬ 
sinuated it in the chubby, tiny hand which lay on 
the mother’s breast. The baby fingers twined around 
it like tendrils about a stronger stalk, and his dark 
eyes opened wide, as if conscious that an angel was 
hovering near. He kept on eating hungrily. 

Bezanne chuckled. "Funny little animals,” he 
commented. Then in English he asked, "Is not the 
mother beautiful?” 

"They both are,” was the Mayfield’s reply. 

He dug deep in his trousers pocket and extracted a 
two-franc piece. "Till to-morrow,” he said, placing 
the coin in the mother’s hand. "The same hour 
in the afternoon.” 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


149 

The woman seemed to glide from the room, bearing 
her precious burden. Mrs. Mayfield stepped over 
to the canvas. 

“You are fairly well along/' she said. 

“Not so far. There is nothing but flesh in the 
piece as yet. The soul has yet to be born. She is 
a good woman. Her husband works in the tunnel 
at Batignolles and earns little. The babe is her 
fifth. If France could only do as well as Italy!" 

Mrs. Mayfield was seated while he wheeled the 
easel to one side, chattering the while. “She is 
beautiful, and with her babe will be a Madonna to 
hang on a church wall. Then she will die, and the 
worms will eat her, but I shall have given her immor¬ 
tality. Such is the accident of a life everlasting." 

“You are a little mad, are you not, Henri?" 

“So men say. Just now 1 am mad to paint your 
picture. The light will not last for long, and I’ll 
just sit here and draw your right hand. The one 
that rests on your knee. Please hold it still, just as 
it is." 

Mrs. Mayfield threw back her head and gazed 
through the slanting glass roof at the clear blue sky, 
whereon one great white cloud was riding. Here 
on the housetops of the Latin quarter the scurrying, 
flashing Paris which she knew seemed miles away. 
No sound came to them from the outer world, and all 
the peace of solitude was in the room. Another 
couch had been added to its furniture, she noted, 


150 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


since she was here before. The table whereon stood 
a small oil burner, the half-open cupboard through 
which the white rims of plates appeared, and the 
screen on which Henri had painted a Normandy 
orchard in bloom, showed that the room was the sole 
living quarters of this little family. 

From atop the cupboard where he had been curled 
unnoticed, King Louis, the cat, dropped with a thud 
to the floor. He stretched his sharp claws to scratch 
in the patched and faded carpet. He yawned and 
arched his furry back. Then he came to rub him¬ 
self in a friendly greeting against the visitors silken 
ankles. 

The little old lady was seated now on her cot with 
a prosaic pair of Henri’s breeches across her knees, 
diligently darning their seat. She lifted her eyes 
occasionally above steel-rimmed spectacles to beam 
upon the pretty lady who had brought such anima¬ 
tion to her son’s voice and eyes. 

“Such a contented home, Henri!’’ sighed the 
Mayfield. 

“Contentment, Madame? I have seldom known 
it. It is a blessing that comes only for rare instants, 
and the rest of our lives we spend in longing for it 
and seeking it. We are always dissatisfied, and 
perhaps that is better.’’ 

“Why?’’ 

“That gets the world’s work done, its tunnels dug, 


THE HEART OF SALOME 151 

and its houses built, and its pictures painted. Which 
brings me back to my old, old plea. Have you at 
last come to let me paint you, as I wish?” 

“Why me, Henri?—Paris is filled with beautiful 
women.” 

“Beauty of face, beauty of form, beauty of heart 
and spirit,—Paris and the world hold millions of 
women, all beautiful in part, and all imperfect. 
There is but one, Madame, whom I have seen, 
beautiful in all, and you are she.” 

“You do not see so clearly, Henri, there are inner 
flaws and ugly spots in plenty.” 

“Clouds that pass over you and shadow you, 
Madame. But is an oak less stately in twilight than 
at noon? You have lived, have you not? So have 
rocks, and lightning has struck and rent them, and 
storms have beat upon them, but nature and time 
come to heal, and cloak their wounds in verdant 
moss, and colour them with centuries of suns and 
starlight that seep even through their hardness. If 
there is a God—He is beauty, and all His works are 
beautiful. Only men mar.” 

There was a brooding mysticism in his voice and 
the Mayfield was drawn with quick sympathy toward 
him. 

“Beauty means everything to you, Henri, does it 
not?” 

“I would live in it, Madame. It is for that I 


152 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


have brought my mother here. She is a saint, 
Madame,—and something of her spirit shines 
through her eyes, till sometimes I stand in awe and 
watch her, and feel as the good Fathers used to tell 
me Moses felt when he saw the burning bush, and 
a voice spoke to him and said, ‘Put off thy shoes 
from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest 
is holy ground/ ” 

“She has a dear son. I could love you for feeling 
that way toward her.” 

“There is your hand, Madame.” 

He placed his drawing pad in her hand. “Not so 
true as Michael Angelo would have done, but my 
best,—thus far.” He rose and stretched his hands 
high above his head which was thrown back to face 
the sky. “Beauty,” he whispered. “I have seen 
it at times in its perfection, and who should more 
than IP I have seen ugliness enough, God knows.” 
He covered his face with both hands. 

“The war,—I know,” Mrs. Mayfield murmured. 
“But that is all passed.” 

His hands dropped limply to his sides, and he 
gazed into her eyes. His face had the pallor of 
approaching death, and his eyes were wide, dis¬ 
tended, filled with horror. 

“I have walked through a shell-hole knee deep in 
mud, and struggling have kicked from my shoe the 
crumbling and rattling skeleton of a man who once 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


153 

lived, impaled and stinking upon my leg. I have 
seen—I have seen-" 

He broke off sharply, and sat down limply in his 
chair. “Such things as no man tells/' he finished, 
and his mother was standing at his side, her hand 
upon his shoulder, patting it gently. 

“We will serve Madame Mayfield tea," she said. 
“It will be good for us all." 

“Ma chere Maman," the artist picked her fragile, 
almost translucent fingers from his shoulder, and 
kissed them lightly. The old woman shuffled away, 
and returned shortly with a low three-legged stool in 
one hand and a steaming hot brass kettle in the other. 
Cups and saucers of thick white china appeared, and 
a slice of country “pate" and creamy cheese to 
spread upon thin slices of “pain d’epices." 

They feasted royally, while King Louis hopped 
upon Mrs. Mayfield’s lap, despite the protests of his 
family, and was there fed from her cupped hands, till 
at last he was content to curl up in a furry ball and 
go to sleep in rumbling happiness beneath her soft 
stroking. They laughed much, and talked of the 
apple blossoms blooming without the city on the near¬ 
by hills of Normandy; and the peace of the Barbizon 
fields whither Henri was going soon to paint; and the 
scarlet poppies along the road to Picardy; how green 
and well-kept were the vineyards of Bordeaux; and 
how the old Papal Palace shone in the light upon 
its hill in Henri’s childhood home of Avignon. 


*54 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


As the light beyond the studio windows grew grey 
with approaching dusk, Madame Bezanne pattered 
off to a nearby shop on one of the never-ending 
errands of a household, and her son was saying to 
his guest: 

“And that is why I paint Madonnas, and wood 
nymphs, because no thing on earth is as lovely as a 
beautiful woman/' 

Mrs. Mayfield rallied him. “Come, now, Henri, 
—you have seen the moon rise on the Riviera." 

He shrugged the suggestion aside. “But to what 
can one compare the beauty of a woman?" he 
demanded. “To not one of the wonders of the 
earth. I had seen slim birch trees swaying in the 
wind, but they were not half so lovely as the slender 
white forms of dancing girls. I have gazed into the 
depths of a moonlit lake, shadowed at its banks by 
a cypress grove, but it was not half so deep, nor 
mysterious, nor peaceful as the eyes of a mother 
watching the babe at her breast. To what shall one 
compare a woman's lips? A pigeon's feather blown 
down the wind falls not so softly as your kiss could 
fall, Madame; and all the purple grapes of Burgundy 
could not so quickly quench a man's thirst." 

Mrs. Mayfield trilled a little laugh, a ripple of 
music to interrupt him. “Henri—Henri—you 
should go back to your verse." 

The artist rose and strode to the window, hands 
rammed deeply in his pockets, moody and scowling. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 155 

The Mayfield stepped quickly close to his ear, and 
told him confidingly low: “You and your mother 
are to be two of my dearest friends—I'm coming to 
see you often. And you can wear out a dozen 
brushes and fourteen tubes of paint on me if you 
will. But I must go now.” 

On her way down the winding stairs she met 
Henri's mother, toiling upward with a bundle on one 
arm. They stopped together for a moment’s “Au 
revoir.” 

The little old lady clasped one of the Mayfield’s 
hands tightly in her free one, and said, “You are 
coming to see my Henri again, are you not?” 

“Often,” the younger woman assured her, “to see 
you both.” 

A perceptible tremor shook the wrinkled hand that 
clasped the Mayfield's. 

“You are very pretty.” Madame Bezanne spoke 
the words almost to herself, then louder, she said: 
“You cheer Henri greatly. He is a moody little 
boy, my son,—still a child, Madame—though a great 
genius.” Her voice ranged from tenderness to 
boastful pride. 

“He is a very great genius,” the younger woman 
agreed. “And some of that must be you.” 

But the mother was gazing too piercingly into her 
eyes to note her compliment. “I know you will not 
hurt him,” she vouchsafed at last. The words were 
only half conviction. They held a little of entreaty. 


156 THE HEART OF SALOME 

“I would like to be your very good friend, if 1 
may/’ said the Mayfield, and, bending forward, she 
kissed one wrinkled cheek. “Au revoir, Madame/' 
she said, and sped down the stairs. 


CHAPTER IX 

So the days that slipped by fast as the sands through 
an old man's hour-glass were sprinkled with visits to 
Henri’s studio. The Mayfield had consented to pose 
for his great picture of “Love Awakening.” 

For the preliminary drawings she was still partly 
veiled in a short Greek tunic of white. She lay 
languidly outstretched upon a rug-covered platform 
which was to be transformed on canvas into the 
mossy bank of an Arcadian pool. For a long time 
she had been reluctant. Then she was reassured by 
the homely presence of that elderly peasant woman, 
whose love and simplicity of life had moulded her 
into the character of a very gentle lady. 

“Be a model for Henri?” the Mayfield asked her¬ 
self. “Why not? I need distraction. And 1 am 
beautiful.” 

The impudent and hardy rovings of that bad cat 
King Louis distracted her. He even ventured so 
far one day as to disturb a sleepy reverie by placing 
his padded paws on her shoulder and peering into 
157 


158 THE HEART OF SALOME 

her eyes that drooped half shut and clouded with 
dreams. 

Also these days she watched the Hon. Hubert 
Mainwaring being jolted quite out of his bored non¬ 
chalance by the buoyant freshness and gaiety of little 
Madge Carroll. The Mayfield took great pleasure 
in playing kindly goddess in this affair, being a much 
more liberal chaperone than Miss Lutetia Waverly, 
but recently of Boston, Massachusetts. 

In the Mayfield’s car they visited the old palaces 
of Versailles and Fontainebleau. After his first 
experience of being guided by Miss Carroll through 
the splendid galleries and formal gardens of old 
royalty’s homes and grounds, the Hon. Hubert 
developed considerable of a flair for visiting outlying 
historic wonders. He insisted that they should 
always take at least a full afternoon, if not a day and 
evening to study them thoroughly. Given an occa¬ 
sional “shot” of whiskey and soda, and a periodic 
renewal of the flower in his lapel at the hands of his 
guide, he declared that he would yet develop into 
one of these antiquarian chaps who were always 
writing letters to the Morning Post on the glories of 
this and that. He wondered if there were a decent 
bar close to the British Museum. 

Once in a while the Mayfield inquired of the girl, 
“Have you seen your brother yet?” 

The reply was uniformly in the negative, with a 
troubled sigh. Then the Mayfield would give com- 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


159 


forting assurance that she would see him soon,—for 
she herself had run into him,—and he had promised 
to look Madge up the first chance he got,—and she 
knew he would,—though he was in some sort of oil 
business that made him travel a great deal. 

On such occasions the Hon. Hubert would call the 
absentee a “blighter,” and be rebuked by little 
sister. Madge was tremendously loyal to Monte. 
She had heard of the scandal in the Copley Club 
with absolute disbelief. She had never wavered in 
her faith in him, even though the rest of the family 
did fear that the charge was too true. They might 
protest that it didn't seem possible for a Carroll. But 
the boy was caught red-handed, as it were, hands 
down,—and had made no defence beyond denial. 
Then he had left the country, without trying to 
brave it out. 

To all this, little Madge would reply that her big 
brother had gone to play a man's game, in the ambu¬ 
lance service for the allies, the goal of adventurous 
American youth in the early days of 1915, and once 
in the thick of the fighting had taken to aviation as 
a thoroughbred colt would take to racing. 

After they were all three fast friends, these things 
inevitably were thrashed out. Both the older folk 
were a comfort to the girl, for had not Mrs. Mayfield 
been at “that damned card game''? And Mrs. 
Mayfield swore Monte was innocent. And Hubert, 
the old dear, having been a “blooming birdie'' him- 


160 THE HEART OF SALOME 

self in the days of conflict, seated in a "‘sweet little 
bomber/' was also authority in her favour. For he 
had seen fighting pilots of the pursuit squadrons, 
such as Monte’s, in action, and he’d swear that since 
brother had downed six Jerry planes and a couple of 
balloons, the chap must be “all right-o.” Such 
stunts required something of a man. But if he 
didn’t come around and see his sister, pretty soon, 
Hubert would look him up. Meanwhile, the Hon. 
Hubert was willing to act as a little more than 
brother, if he only might. That was all understood. 

Till at last, one day, Madge and her brother met. 
He had carried out his promise to the Mayfield, and 
he and Madge rode together a long, sunny morning, 
through the winding drives of the Bois, back of a 
sleepy, plodding old nag, and renewed their old-time 
affection. The Mayfield was shopping that morning, 
preparatory to a long motor trip in the afternoon 
with Madge and Hubert, and she did not know of 
the brother’s and sister’s meeting. 

But she heard of it all too soon. 

Instead of a taxi bringing Hubert and Madge to 
the rendezvous at her home that afternoon, came 
Hubert alone, his long legs striding angrily, and his 
stout stick swinging viciously, his brows clouded, and 
his face red with embarrassment. 

“Damn it all, Diane,” he stormed when he rose 
to meet her as she entered the salon to which her 
maid had ushered him. “The damnedest thing,— 


THE HEART OF SALOME 161 

beg pardon,—quite indecent language I know, but 
I’ve used up all my army language in the last half 
hour—have to get back to stable talk soon.—Madge 
isn't coming,—to-day,—not any day, as far as I'm 
concerned.—But we’ll go along together, won’t we? 
No reason to spoil our fun, is there?” 

“You poor dear boy,—sit down and stop glaring 
as if you were going to eat someone. I’ll get you a 
drink.” 

The Hon. Hubert collapsed into his chair. 
“Right-o,” he said. “You’re absolutely ace high 
with me. Top-hole. Nobody like you.” 

The Mayfield laughed, over the tabouret from 
which were emerging bottles suitably labelled for 
dealing with the symptoms of derangement her 
visitor showed. 

“Now just steady yourself, Hubert,” she advised. 
“You and Madge will be back together to-morrow 
as thick as thieves, and you’ll regret those words. 
After you absorb a little of this you can tell me all 
about it, and I’ll tell you where you were wrong, and 
how you can put yourself right.—For there isn’t the 
least doubt about it, Hubert, you’re wrong now, and 
you’re about to be wrong the rest of your life.” 

His half-emptied glass before him, Mainwaring 
sighed with approaching peace, like a sailor who had 
come from outer storms into a placid port, and was 
now warming himself before the fire of a mariner’s 
inn. “You are the most wonderful woman in the 


162 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


world,” he informed the Mayfield. "I vote we take 
a long ride somewhere this afternoon, then buy a 
ripping big dinner, and go to a show.” 

“You've quarrelled with your girl,” was the May- 
field's accusation. 

“Right you are, and once and for all. By the 
way, do you know where that rotter of a brother of 
hers lives?” 

“Why be jealous of a brother?” jibed his com¬ 
panion. Then she admonished him. “Besides, 
he’s no rotter.” 

“Then he’s an awful ass,” growled Mainwaring, 
and buried his nose in his liquor. 

“You might as well tell me what it's all about,” 
advised the woman. “I'm bound to find out any¬ 
way as soon as 1 see Madge.” 

“Oh, it's nothing to discuss. It's too damn silly. 
It doesn't amount to a thing, really. I could fix 
it up in five minutes if I could see this fellow. By 
George, I will see him, too. We’ll see whether his 
blessed old embassy can’t locate him.” 

“Hubert!” The word was a challenge. “You're 
hiding something from your old friend.” 

“Rot! Let’s go riding.” 

The Mayfield arose. “I’ll just telephone Madge 
and find out what all this is about,” she told him. 

He scrambled upright. “Oh, I wouldn't do 
that,” he warned, obviously troubled. Then with 


THE HEART OF SALOME 163 

clumsy craftiness, "Besides, I doubt if she’s at her 
hotel now.” 

"Hubert!” Again the ringing demand. 

■'Oh, all right,” he assented wretchedly. "Sit 
down and I’ll tell you. Even if it’s too damned 
absurd. Why, you know how I stand where you’re 
concerned. I suppose I’m not one of these brilliant 
beggars. But I’m not a bad sort. Wouldn’t beat 
the wife, or anything like that. Diane, 1 wonder 
whether you wouldn’t go farther and get worse, than 
take the future earl of Nortwick. Aren’t Americans 
keen on titles?” 

The Mayfield dropped into her chair, and rewarded 
him only with open amusement. "My dear, you’re 
impossible, but sweet. I’m going to help you get 
back to your Madge.” 

Mainwaring grunted. "Think so? Well, I’m 
not going back to Madge as long as she believes 
fool’s tales, gossips, and scandal mongers.” 

A shadow of fear passed over the Mayfield’s clear 
sky. "It’s something about me, isn’t it,” she asked 
quietly. 

"Why, the fact is,—this fool brother of hers 
evidently holds something against you, or believes 
all he hears, and she thinks he’s a little tin god. 
Madge isn’t such a cat, naturally. But he holds her 
spellbound. And he’s had the nerve to tell her she’s 
not to come to see you any more.” 

Although Diane gave no sign of the blow she had 


164 THE HEART OF SALOME 

received, she was inwardly reeling. Some dead 
weight, enormous, heavy as a millstone, had taken 
the place of her heart. The room, which had been 
so cheery and sunlit, was suddenly dark. So this 
was Monte's answer to her daily entreaties, wafted 
him by mental wireless, her little pleadings to return, 
breathed nightly into her pillow, and whispered by 
high noon to vagrant birds which might alight on 
his window-ledge. This was the end. All she had 
done for him had been a vain effort, as far as yielding 
her any return. 

“Give a dog a bad name!”—She recalled the 
adage, sadly. She had damned herself in Monte's 
eyes years ago. He was hard, and unforgiving. 

Even then she was building excuses for him. He 
had caught her at a vile misdeed when she robbed his 
boy friend. Perhaps she was really bad and he was 
right,—but she loved him. She had certainly 
proved that to him. But then she asked herself if 
she really had demonstrated it beyond any doubt. 
It was natural that he should consider her Sir Hum¬ 
phrey's mistress, she admitted, after seeing her in 
his home, practically in his embrace, the night when 
she had done the plotter’s errand, especially as she 
had been introduced as the financier’s daughter, 
under a false name, only the night before. 

But Monte had been sinned against himself. He 
had been under the condemnation of false appear¬ 
ances. He, too, had suffered. He ought to have 


THE HEART OF SALOME 165 

learned to withhold judgment, she accused him, upon 
a woman who had given him such proofs of good 
will. Not Monte! He was stern as his forbears 
in their wintry Plymouth colony, as uncompromising 
and intolerant. Perhaps that was part of his 
strength. 

And now he had insulted her. Her cheeks burned 
red with the shame of it. He had branded her unfit 
for his sisters companionship. He had degraded 
her. She felt the tears rising to her eyes, and swore 
that she would not cry. She placed one cool hand 
to her face to allay its fevered heat. But one little 
phrase was beating more steadily and dominantly 
through her brain than all the thoughts of shame, 
and anger, and revolt, and arguings to excuse him. 
And the words that beat as steadily as the ticking of 
the long pendulumed clock in the corner of the room 
were these: 

“He'll not come back." 

She was aware that Hubert was rattling along 
about what “rot" people could get in their minds 
when they had nothing better to do than to consider 
the faults of their acquaintances, and what a corking 
good time they had always had together, they two,— 
and how he, for one, voted for a large and expensive 
evening,—but she only half heard him. The sound 
of his voice, distant and meaningless, filled her with 
a vague wave of affection for him, and at the same 
time a sense of annoyance that she was not alone, so 


i66 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


that she could grapple with this foeman of sorrow 
who was oppressing her, and cast him out. 

She could not go riding with Hubert, now. She 
must think. But the poor dear was absolutely right, 
as so many well intentioned people are absolutely 
right though exasperating,—what she had better have 
was a gay evening. 

She interrupted his steady flow of conversation. 
“Madge is a dear girl, Hubert, and one of the dearest 
things about her is her loyalty to her brother. She 
will be very loyal to her husband some day. As for 
Monte, he—he's an intolerant sort. But he's fine, 
too, in his way. He has ample reason to think that 
he's caught me off-side in the game, but he'll learn 

differently—I hope—and if he doesn't-" She 

broke off lamely. “If he doesn’t, I'm sorry but I 
can’t help it." 

Mainwaring had one of his rare flashes of intuition. 
“By George, Diane, he's not the beggar you're in 
love with. I've known all along there must be some¬ 
one." 

“I used to be, years ago." 

The man gazed steadily at her moody, downcast 
eyes. “Well, you’ve always got your friends," he 
said aloud, and then to himself, concerning another 
man, he muttered, “The damn fool!" 

The Mayfield was on her feet, smiling brightly. 
“I’ve got you for a little while, haven’t I, Hubert? 
Till you and Madge, or some other nice girl, patch 


THE HEART OF SALOME 167 

things up to keep up the family name? I'll go out 
on a real ‘tear with you to-night if you'll buy tickets 
to a show." 

She held out her hand, and the Hon. Mr. Main- 
waring arose and grasped it. “You're a plucky little 
devil," he said to her. “See you at seven for 
dinner." 


CHAPTER X 
'‘He'll not come back." 

The Mayfield sat at the dressing-table of her 
boudoir obliterating the last faint suspicion of 
ravages made by tears. She smiled disdainfully to 
the pretty lady who smiled back at her from the 
mirror, but whose sad wide eyes somehow distorted 
and softened the scorn for regrets in her curling lips. 

“I can be very gay without him, comrade," whis¬ 
pered Diane to her image, and at the thought of just 
how revelrous and happy she would be, the tears once 
more threatened to bead her long lashes. “We are 
very beautiful, are we not? And men are more 
plentiful than taxis. There's always one coming 
around the corner in a minute." 

She had let Lysiane go, after the maid had helped 
her into a woolly peignoir, and had given her com¬ 
forting attention to soothe her troubles. She had 
wanted to be alone. And she was glad, now that 
she sat combing her tawny aureole of chestnut hair, 
with furious, punishing strokes of her comb. She 
was refreshed, and ready to prepare for carrying on 
168 


THE HEART OF SALOME 169 

her life again. Her life was still far too young to 
be ruined by any one man, and as for Monte Carroll, 
she hated him. 

She hated him most because his insult had erased 
his image from the spot upon which it had always 
rested in her heart, and left nothing there, she was 
sure, but an aching, longing emptiness. She never 
would think of him another minute. If he could 
only know that, it would hurt his vanity, anyway, 
she thought. All men are vain, even more vain 
than women. 

So she brushed, and brushed, and thought, till 
suddenly in her mirror she caught the tiniest white 
reflection. And it caused her to snap alight the 
second of the two flower-like lamps upon the table, 
and lean very close to the glass. Her brush dropped 
with a clatter upon the rosewood surface, and she 
searched with painstaking fingers until she had found 
that which she had suspected,—a single grey hair. 

She shivered. “I'm not so old. Twenty-six/' 
And then she knew she hated Monte Carroll the more. 
“You put that there/' she accused the absent man, 
who always would be absent, because she would never 
see him again even, if he apologized to her on his 
knees. “I've another score to settle with you for 
that." 

She would not pull it out, lest two grow in its 
place. She would hide it away very carefully, where 
no one would spy it. And she would dress herself 


170 THE HEART OF SALOME 

to-night, and every night, so that Hubert, or what¬ 
ever man she honoured, would be the envy of all 
others. Was she not the Mayfield? As great a 
celebrity in her way in this beautiful city as Clemen- 
ceau, or even Sir Humphrey? 

She rummaged in her wardrobe and drew out at 
last an evening gown to suit her needs. They would 
probably dine at the Cafe de Paris. Hubert liked 
the place. Over its soft carpets and between its 
spotless tables women glided from time to time who 
had been drawn to it by a world-wide selective proc¬ 
ess for their charms, and they were there consciously 
on display, in trappings of splendour which had cost 
the life-long toil of many men. 

She slammed the door of her wardrobe shut and 
stepped to her pier glass. She slipped off her peig¬ 
noir. This filmy, shimmering, little work of the 
modiste’s art which she held in her hands was 
nothing to be dropped over the head. She stepped 
into it, and drew it up about her. 

A bodice of peacock blue sequins, high in the front 
and guiltless of any back, suspended by a tenuous 
string of tiny sapphires that sparkled in two lines 
of exotic blue fires descending from the pure white 
column of her neck. Slashed sharply downward to 
meet in the waist at her back, the sequins clung to 
her tightly, clear to the svelte curve of her hips, 
where they vanished in a billowy cloud of green 
chiffon. The gown was a triumph of Jenny’s, 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


171 

designed for the Mayfield alone, and fitted to her by 
Madame Jenny herself, with no intervening manne¬ 
quin to display it to a blase group of fashionable 
sensation seekers. 

“I would label it ‘Conquest/” Madame Jenny 
had told her. “If you did not conquer all without 
need of such weapons.” 

“They help,” the Mayfield had retorted, and 
Madame Jenny, chuckling, in perfect understanding 
had replied, “Is it not true?” 

“Everyone else will love me,” the Mayfield said 
to her pier glass, as she pirouetted slowly, and the 
“else” was vindictive. One man would not. She 
opened her jewel box upon her sadly diminished col¬ 
lection, “The rewards of virtue,” she jeered as she 
regarded its several empty cubicles. But one of the 
earliest of her gifts from Dan Mayfield supplied her 
what she sought, pear-shaped sapphire pendants for 
her ears, hung upon a slender string of diamond 
chips till they almost brushed her bare shoulders. 
From a drawer she drew an enormous fan of blood- 
red ostrich plumes. Then the door-bell rang, and she 
listened while the cuisiniere admitted Mainwaring. 
From her wardrobe she pulled her latest evening 
wrap, white silk from a blue-lynx collar, and swathed 
herself in it before the glass. Satisfied, she reached 
for her gloves, then dropped the cloak from her 
shoulders, and holding it over her arm went out to 
her visitor. 


172 THE HEART OF SALOME 

'immense/' was his tribute, and his eyes told 
more. 

"You might mix me a cocktail/' she admonished. 
"We shall be gay to-night." 

“Right-o." He reached for the ingredients, and 
when she had scurried out to the kitchen and back 
with the ice, and they had downed it, and he had 
helped her wrap herself warmly in her cape, and they 
were seated in his limousine, she asked, "Where 
to?" 

"Cafe de Paris," he said, as she had foreseen. 
"You always like that, and then a surprise." 

"Tell me, do!" 

"You remember this Galuppi,—painter chap,— 
that did you for the Salon last winter? He’s back in 
town. Ran into him at the Ritz. Funny what 
queer chaps one strikes at a bar. Always meeting 
the most interesting sorts. 

"Well, Galuppi asked for you, and then I told 
him we were dining to-night. ‘That's bad/ he said. 
‘I'm just here for to-night. Remember that picture 
I painted of her?' Of course I did. Who wouldn't? 
Salome; and Gad! What a Salome! ‘I’ve just 
found a sensation/ said Galuppi. ‘An old Russian 
friend of mine, model for me when she was a little 
girl, now a great actress. She’s up at the Theatre 
Tremina, and she's doing Salome to-night. Mar¬ 
vellous dance. Marvellous music by Strauss. Mar¬ 
vellous settings. You know these Moscow artists, 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


173 


what they can do.’ And the chap ran on. Well, 
the upshot was I told him to rally around. 1 knew 
you wanted a good party, and I'm not so brilliant an 
entertainer as some. So after dinner,—I pigged the 
dinner, wanted you to myself, you know,—he’s 
coming around. We’re going to the Tremina, and 
see his little girl dance, and then the four of us are 
going to dance together wherever we want to go.” 

“All right,” said the Mayfield carelessly. 
“You’re a generous soul, and I’m glad you pigged 
the dinner. I’m moderately fond of you, Hubert.” 

They swept into the Cafe de Paris quite as a prima 
donna enters upon her stage, and dinner was a 
success both gastronomically and theatrically. All 
the world was there, the little world that knows every¬ 
one, and the Mayfield was its star. But her eyes 
strayed, and her mind roved in discontent, even when 
Galuppi arrived with his ingratiating worship, bow¬ 
ing low to kiss her hand and murmur, “Princezza.” 
She noted every man who entered the doorway, and 
none of them was Monte Carroll. 

Diane and Hubert included the Italian artist in 
their course of benedictine and coffee, and he told 
them of Djina Nuova, who was rising in the firma¬ 
ment of Europe’s fair women, a dancer incomparable, 
daughter of a ballerina in the imperial ballet at 
Petrograd, and of a straying, irresponsible musician, 
Victor Nuova, a fellow townsman of his from Naples. 

“She will set the world afire,” he promised them. 


m 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


“She has all of Victor’s fire, and he was almost a 
great composer. Her mother has given her some¬ 
thing more, an iron will and discipline. And she is 
beautiful. What more would you? I think she is 
a little like you, Madame, relentless in pursuit of 
whatever she wants.” 

“You under-estimate me,” said the Mayfield. “I 
have everything I want without pursuit.” 

“Doubtless,” said the artist, “but God help the 
thing you finally consider worth your while to pursue. 
As I told you when I painted you, there is much of 
Salome in you, and that’s why I wanted you to see 
Djina to-night.” 

A shiver passed over the Mayfield, as if someone 
had opened a door close by, and she pulled her cape 
to her shoulders. A little of Salome? How much! 

She too had been scorned by a man, and hatred had 
taken the place of love. If only she could turn him 
over as easily to an executioner! She would take 
delight in watching the sword fall, save that it would 
not hurt enough this man who had insulted her, 
despised her, branded her as something too mean and 
low and soiled to have contact with him or his, after 
she had indeed pursued him, and offered him on his 
own terms all for which the rich and powerful of 
earth were glad to bid high. 

She shuddered again with cold. She could not 
blot him out. Then she laughed nervously. Strange 


THE HEART OF SALOME 175 

that she should be taken to see Salome on a night 
like this! A premonition of evil troubled her. 

“Let us go,” she said. 

The fates of men and women and empires hang on 
such little, unwitting decisions, and on the blunders 
of men. The Hon. Mr. Mainwaring had never seen 
Wilde’s sensuous, sad tragedy, and Galuppi did not 
suspect the storms that were raging in the Mayfield’s 
heart. And he was right about Djina Nuova’s 
genius. 

Her act was the second on a double bill, and they 
arrived early at ten o’clock. They saw the curtain 
descend on the inane ensemble of an ordinary French 
revue, stage cluttered with pretty women, semi-nude, 
in bizarre head-dresses, singing and dancing with 
more enthusiasm than melody, while a comedian and 
the headline “vedette” passed chummy quips of 
dubious taste with the orchestra leader and the 
slightly inebriated gentlemen of the front rows. 

The second act, given by the Moscow troupe, 
already being bruited, as the sensation of Paris, was 
to be quite different and far better. Meanwhile the 
audience could rush out to the American bar and 
circulate along the promenoirs, and the Mayfield’s 
party could gain its seat in a box, and the Mayfield 
could dispense with her wraps to the gasping “Ah!” 
of an audience that knew her by sight and reputation, 
and to the agitated sibilants of a thousand gossip- 


176 THE HEART OF SALOME 

ing tongues, rare incense and heady wine to man or 
woman. 

Curtain! The house was dark, and the haunting 
sweetness of Strauss' immortal music flowed from 
wood-winds and strings. 

The scene was a pillared, vine-hung terrace of a 
Roman palace, built beside the purple waters of the 
sea of Galilee. Roman soldiers, in corselets of 
bronze and red short tunics, were playing dice upon 
the stony pavement, and a hideous Ethiopian execu¬ 
tioner was mounting guard with flashing broad 
scimitar above the stairs leading down to a 
dungeon. . . . 

The daughter of Herodias entered, gliding lis- 
somly on sandalled feet, ornamented with henna at 
toe and heel, with a cloak of gossamer weight, as 
many hued as a snake skin, gathered gleaming about 
her slender frame. She laughed to scorn the honest 
suit of a Roman officer, and her eyes were wild with 
pain. She strode to the door of the dungeon, and 
listened to the mumbled prayers of the strange, wild, 
goat-skin-clad prophet imprisoned in a basement cell 
below. 

“Jokanaan, are you there?" 

“What have I to do with thee, daughter of evil?" 

The play was on, and the Mayfield was leaning 
forward from her chair, hands gripping its arms till 
the knuckles almost burst through their white flesh, 
her lips half opened, breath quickened in sympathy, 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


177 


and her shining eyes rivalling the jewels at her neck 
and shoulders. The men with whom she had come 
to the theatre disappeared from her consciousness; 
she was sheltered in a house of darkness; and a rare 
actress with a flaming spirit and a form of beauty was 
talking upon the stage not only to her prophet in his 
dungeon, but to the Mayfield in her box. 

“Jokanaan, your lips are red as the cherries that 
hang on the hills of Judaea. I would kiss your lips, 
Jokanaan. Your skin is white as the milk from the 
goats that graze in the valleys of Zion. 1 would 
rest my head upon you.” 

The Nuova’s body rocked and swayed, and her 
arms were flung wide in appeal. There was a sob 
strangling in the Mayfield’s throat, and past the stage 
she saw the room in Dan’s fishing shack at Point-o’- 
Pines, and another woman was pleading there, a 
little more subtly, a little less frank perhaps, but 
using every desperate weapon of her sex to lure and 
sway to her side, even as the child of Herodias was 
fighting there on the stage for the man upon whom 
she had set her will. 

But the saint repelled Salome. Queer modern 
world, where saints still existed! But Monte was 
no saint. He was a red-blooded, two-fisted man, who 
had killed his man in battle and was even now 
engaged in merciless combat for the wealth that 
gushed out of the earth, and the luxuries and power 
its possession would bring. Salome bribed her 


178 THE HEART OF SALOME 

Roman guard with a kiss, and the saint was brought 
up from his dungeon, where she could imperil his 
soul with the seduction of the senses. If the guard 
later took his own life upon his sword, Salome would 
not give him a moment of pity. She would stride 
across the body of the fallen soldier, if need be, to 
come closer to the drawn white visage of The Baptist. 
And this was because she was wicked, a thoroughly 
bad woman. 

Poor, pitiful bad woman! Profiting nothing for 
evil, and all her designs frustrated! The Mayfield's 
eye-lids flashed shut, and shut again, to stem a tide 
of tears, for the woman who was her spiritual sister. 
And she acknowledged that Monte was right to label 
her bad. 

But what were good and evil that one should weigh 
them beside the overwhelming thirst of one's soul? 
Was it not the rule of the world that strong men 
desired, and worked, and schemed, and fought, and 
trampled, and wrought injustice if need be, but kept 
their eyes on what they wanted, and clawed their way 
toward it until it was theirs? Until they were “suc¬ 
cesses in life," acknowledged by the world, and privi¬ 
leged to lay down pious homilies to youth upon the 
sure rewards of diligence at one's task, and honesty, 
and loyalty, and all the homely, rugged virtues by 
which presumably they had attained high station? 

Monte was right that she was bad. But her bad¬ 
ness consisted in loving one thing alone above all 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


179 

else, so that her very love had warped her soul and 
made it something twisted and evil. It was not part 
of her beauty. 

Even so it was with Salome, now cringing on the 
dungeon stair, her saint returned to his cell at the 
approach of Herod, mighty ruler. 

The saint was still impervious to her charms, pre¬ 
ferring to die than be hers, so fastened were his eyes 
on some other vision. So fastened was his heart 
upon some other one single vision, which he loved 
above all else, that he became good, even to per¬ 
fection! A strange, mad world was this where one 
man's love nourishing him made him good and 
another's devouring him made him bad; a dark, 
deep, trackless sea, whereon men and women guided 
their frail barks without compass or guide, sport of 
unreasoning winds that tossed one lover safely to 
shore and drowned another, though they had laid 
their courses parallel. So Salome sobbed on her 
stage, and the Mayfield turned hard and cold and 
dangerous, seated in her theatre box. 

Herod sat on his throne, and looked about him in 
pride. He was wealth. He was power. When he 
spoke, men leaped to obey. He had money to buy 
him amusement, and when men opposed him they 
suffered. Only his shoulders were prey to twinges 
of rheumatism and he knew he was old. His stomach 
was fat and he loved to sit down and rest it upon his 
knees. All well and good, for most of his enemies 


i8o 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


were dead and he rarely had need of action. But he 
regretted that all the wine he had drunk, and all the 
peacocks’ tongues he had tasted, had left a film over 
his eyes and tongue, so that his enjoyments were 
dulled, and the world was not half so fair as it used 
to be. His wife, Herodias had turned from a 
strapping, upstanding, sporting wench into an acidu¬ 
lous shrew, and he suspected her of many sins against 
him. 

He should have had her poisoned long ago, but 
somehow he did not dare. 

The rheumy eyes of the governor fell upon the 
gently rocking, rounded form of Salome, perverse, 
erotic beauty, who always stirred in him memories of 
old lusts, and burnt-out passions. True daughter of 
her mother, she maddened him, flaunting her youth 
before him and taunting him in every movement and 
impudent smile of understanding at the bitterness of 
his senility. If he were only what he was! He 
would have tamed that vixen. He would have 
broken her. His mind strayed and his head nodded. 
Ah! He could remember, just as fair and just as 
perverse! And a vision of whips that rose and fell in 
the arms of black soldiers, and red welts on writhing 
white skins. His lips were dry and he licked them 
with his tongue. There sat the girl, ignoring him. 

'‘Dance for me, Salome.” 

Slowly and reluctantly, and with stifled rebellion, 
the girl dragged herself back from her sorrow and the 


THE HEART OF SALOME 181 

contemplation of that bearded man in his dungeon to 
the magnificence of the despot's suite. She rose as 
in a trance, and swayed to the steps below his 
throne. Despair had given way to hate, and her 
mind was busy with wickedness. 

“Dance for me, Salome." 

She goaded him out of his greed to the promise 
of half his kingdom by her coquetries and indiffer¬ 
ence, the half revelations and swift withdrawals back 
of her lustrous veil. And now she knew what she 
wanted, what she would do with this prophet who had 
defied her, and she had the ruler's promise, sworn 
upon an unbreakable oath in the presence of his 
court, to give her what she willed. She walked to 
her rooms with her handmaidens to prepare for the 
dance. 

“Gad! She's a marvel," said Mainwaring, sotto 
voce, behind the Mayfield's ear. 

“Did I not tell you?" chuckled Galuppi. “She 
will inflame all Paris, la bella Djina. She was such 
a pretty little girl, and her maestro whipped her legs 
to keep her dancing, when she wished to rest." 

But the Mayfield said nothing. She was sitting, 
deathly pale, watching the wing where Djina Nuova 
had made her exit. 

There, she perceived, was another woman, there 
in her dressing-room, who knew and understood the 
wild power of passion. She wondered how the 
Russian had come by her knowledge. There was 


182 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


no force in the words of Wilde, “lord of language” 
that the man had been, to move her as this actress 
had done, nor had the music of Strauss held half the 
emotion of the woman's tones in the plea to 
Jokanaan. 

When Salome's decision of hatred was taken, and 
her mind was plotting murder, she had entered and 
possessed the mind and heart of the woman in the 
theatre box, the other woman scorned and insulted, 
and wounded in pride, yet burning still with desire. 
Twin sisters in beauty and passion, with hands out¬ 
stretched to clasp across the intervening ages; all the 
refinements of her modernity were stripped from the 
Mayfield by the rough hands of primitive feeling; 
all the antiquity of Salome brought up to date as the 
crime story in the latest newspaper editions by the 
unchanging, eternal sameness of human nature. 

Djina took the stage again, and hollow drums of 
an Orient timbre beat her measure, and a plaintive 
flute sang her melody. Cloaked only in lace of cob¬ 
webby texture from her full throat to her little white, 
pink-tipped feet, her every curve and rippling muscle 
were outlined in the soft coloured lights that bathed 
her from off-stage. The dance was daring as only 
the dance of a Paris stage can be. And she was 
beautiful, so that all men admired. The pig-like 
eyes of the fat Herod gleamed in rapture, and his 
asthmatic breathing was noisy. But her beauty 
thrilled no one so much as the woman in the theatre 


THE HEART OF SALOME 183 

box who loved her own fair texture, and whose heart 
almost stopped beating with wonder as la bella 
Nuova spun her sinuous mazes on feet that fell and 
twinkled as lightly as falling dew. 

The cob-web cloak of Salome dropped from her 
shoulders. The lights turned dazzling white on a 
little ring about her in a darkened stage. Her steps 
were faster and more mad, and the network of jewels 
which hung upon her sparkled and flamed; red rubies 
at her breast, and pure white diamonds on snowy, 
flashing thighs. The lights went out. And as the 
stage was light again she lay exhausted, panting, be¬ 
fore a sated, gluttonous Herod. 

"Even to the half of my kingdom, ask. And ye 
shall have.” 

"The head of Jokanaan, he that is called the 
Baptist." 

The horrible executioner descended into the 
dungeon and emerged with the bloody, severed head 
upon a silver salver. And when the mad-woman had 
taken it, and kissed its lifeless lips, and held it tight 
to the warmth of her bosom, and wept over it, and 
laughed at it, prayed to it to open its eyes, and 
mocked it for the life which had gone from it, and 
even the degenerate Herod had been shocked by her 
monstrous deed, and ordered his soldiers to plunge 
their spears into her grovelling body, the curtain 
descended with a rush. 

The theatre was ablaze with light. There was 


184 THE HEART OF SALOME 

nervous laughter, and the chattering of many 
tongues. Well fed and plentifully-wined men were 
getting into their coats, and women with eyes gleam¬ 
ing excitedly were greeting friends, and covering with 
furs and silks their soft voluptuous scented flesh 
that emerged from their gowns like swelling flowers 
bursting from budding stalks. The exits were 
crowded with merry-makers impatient to be off to 
the slippery dance floors of Montmartre and to such 
noise of popping champagne bottles and surging 
violins as would drown out the disturbance within 
them, which was troubling them, from the spectacle 
they had seen. 

The tragedy was done. Now for the comedy of 
real life. 

But the Mayfield was wiping her eyes, seated in 
her chair, oblivious to her surroundings, pouring out 
sympathy from the depths of her soul to the poor, 
tortured woman, who somehow had lost her way from 
the clean and sun-lit world, had sunk into vileness, 
and attained peace at last only upon the points of 
spears, struck deep into her flesh to rend her heart. 

The deed that Salome had done was not so mon¬ 
strous. It was the logical and right result of her 
suffering. Ineffably sad, but life was sad, and the 
sleep of death was sweet to give her peace. 

It was the rejection by Jokanaan, the pallid, insane 
ascetic, that was the monstrous, unnatural thing, and 
his reviling and his insults hurled at a woman in 


THE HEART OF SALOME 185 

love. A man possessed by an idea, an abstraction, 
an intangible vision in the clouds, and going to his 
death for it, shaking off with sneers the offer of a 
reality that should have been wealth to satisfy the 
most greedy, the tangible and physical person of 
Salome, bringing him all her service, caresses, and 
devotion! There was something revolting in that, 
to a woman whose pride was in the sleekness of her 
skin and the suppleness of her limbs, and whose 
vision of life saw that the world was a cup brimming 
over with rare, intoxicating wine to be drained slowly 
and sensuously, and with infinite relish before its 
dregs were reached and one succumbed to the inevit¬ 
able sleep. 

So Diane was glad that Jokanaan had been killed. 
And as for Carroll! That tall, stern, dark critic of 
her conduct, who lacked Jokanaan’s excuse of saint¬ 
liness, who did not flout her for a journey to heaven, 
but to keep on working for money, and then for some 
other woman! Flashes of oppressive heat and 
chilling cold swept alternately over her. She hated 
him. No other woman ever should have him. That 
much was certain. She would willingly see him in 
his grave first. Her nails cut deeply into the palms 
of her hands. She shivered, and her heart seemed 
to stop and sink and melt within her, and need to be 
shaken into action once more. Then it hammered 
against her breast like a sledge, and her lips were 
strangely dry. Her bosom rocked with uneven 


i86 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


breathing, and her mind was rushing fast across the 
images of Salome's triumph and death, and into the 
calm, cold contemplation that hangs on the border of 
delirium, the contemplation of murder. 

She hated him. And there is no deep, real hate 
that does not carry its wish to kill. 

A gloved hand touched her arm, and she looked 
up. The sympathetic, kindly face of the Hon. 
Hubert Mainwaring was smiling down at her 
quizzically. 'Tour friend Hubert is a damn fool, 
Diane, to have brought you here to-night. We 
didn’t need tragedy but darky shouters. Let’s get 
some. Galuppi’s gone to get his friend and will join 
us at the '400’ Club.” 


CHAPTER XI 

They supped and danced at the club, two beautiful, 
silent women, and two jovial, proud men. La bella 
Djina was swathed to her chin in an Egyptian mantle 
with a silver fox collar, and her dark almond eyes 
were weary. Her Oriental high cheek bones were 
flushed with a warm red glow that seemed to be 
backed with gold, but she frankly admired the May- 
field's creamy pallor, the jade ethereal fire in her 
eyes, and her tawny, chestnut mane, so that the two 
women were friends at once, and the party was at 
ease. 

One of the Mayfield's rivals in Parisian fame was 
among the revellers, Mme. Cleone of the Comedie 
Frangaise. She was wearing a rope of pearls that 
wound three times about her neck and hung almost 
to the floor as she arose to dance with a swart 
Maharajah from upper India, whose dusky wife was 
bending her diamond coronet close to the whispered 
flatteries of a French editor, noted for his vitriolic 
attacks on the British empire. 

187 


i88 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


Mainwaring was rattling along with gossip, mainly 
about Mme. Cleone's latest flair, which was the giv¬ 
ing of dinners for statesmen in her mansion at 
Neuilly-sur-Seine. 

“It was Secretary Gommard,” he said, “the big 
Normandy farmer, who elicited her bon mot last 
Monday night about the pearls. Have you not 
heard? All Paris is laughing about it. Gommard 
was sitting on her left, and he reached out his big 
paw and held a yard or so of jewelry up to the 
light. ‘What beautiful pearls!’ he remarked, try¬ 
ing to chaff her. it must have taken a great many 
oysters to make them/ La belle Cleone looked him 
straight in the eye, and put her chin in the air. 
‘Mais non, Monsieur/ she spoke as to an 
audience, and then she held up her forefinger, it 
took but one/ ” 

They laughed together. “And who, do you sup¬ 
pose, was the one?” asked the pretty Djina. 

“Oh, some South American probably. The pam¬ 
pas breed millions and fools,” answered Mainwaring. 

“Or Sir Humphrey Leinster,” put in Galuppi. 
“Money means nothing to the financier. And those 
pearls would have cost whole droves of South Ameri¬ 
can cattle.” 

Diane roused herself from a distant reverie. “I 
think the amours of Sir Humphrey are greatly exag¬ 
gerated,” she remarked. “And at any rate, he is 


THE HEART OF SALOME 189 

no fool. A person does not gain such wealth as his 
by over-paying on the open market/' 

"I beg your pardon/' said Galuppi, and his smile 
was ironic. 

The Mayfield leaned to Mainwaring. “Dance 
with me, Hubert," she begged. He arose. “Dance 
for me, Salome," he mocked. “Only I have been 
wanting to for some time." They struck off in 
rhythm together. 

“Will you leave me over by the telephone booth 
a minute?" she asked. “This is rather an empty 
life, I think to-night, even with a friend like you. 
I’m going home." 

“Don't blame you a bit. We’ll have to sleep off 
this Salome show, even if La Djina was wonderful." 

“She is wonderful, and I'm going to know her, 
and we’ll have tea together, often, Hubert, when her 
discipline allows." 

She went to the telephone booth, and when she 
emerged it was with inner excitement. “I’ll drop 
you at your home, Hubert," she told him. There s 
no use your travelling way out to Passy with me and 
back." 

Mainwaring looked at her sharply. Whatever it 
is you are up to," he said, don t do it. The whole 
Carroll family isn’t worth it, and if you say, I 11 
cane the beggar within an inch of his life, or let him 
thrash me." 


190 THE HEART OF SALOME 

She laughed derisively. “Such belligerence! 
Why bother? And Madge wouldn’t like it. Where 
do you want to go?” 

“Oh, drop me at the Imperial Club, and confound 
Madge.” 

They made their excuses to Galuppi and Djina, 
who were remaining, and sped away in Mrs. May- 
field’s car across the brilliant square of the Opera. 
Hubert was dropped at his club, and Mrs. Mayfield’s 
motor hummed away toward Passy. Sunk deep in 
its cushions the woman sat with eyes half closed and 
glazed, saying over and over to herself, “I hate him 
—I hate him—I hate him.” She was sure that her 
heart was breaking. 

Half way out the Champs Elysee she lifted her 
speaking tube and gave Sir Humphrey Leinster’s 
address to the driver. The huge car swerved at the 
approaching corner. Without relaxing its speed it 
made the necessary detour through the deserted 
streets to draw up before the high iron gate, behind 
which a garden and mansion were hidden in dark¬ 
ness. 

“You will wait,” she told the driver. A concierge 
came leaping to the gate at her sharp ring. He 
turned its massive lock, and admitted her. A light 
flashed and shone above the porte-cochere of Sir 
Humphrey’s house, and as Diane skipped up the 
three stairs to the door, the portal was swung wide. 
There stood Saki, bowing and smiling his greeting, 


THE HEART OF SALOME 191 

just as if all recollection had been wiped away of that 
recent time when he and his master and Critchlow 
had been backed off from their prostrate foe, and 
forced to walk in front of the Mayfield’s pistol, while 
she guided the fellow to safety. An imperturbable, 
exceptional face for poker was Saki's. 

“Good evening, Saki,” she spoke to him with a 
bright and confidential smile, as if she were taking 
him into the secret of a great practical joke. “Sir 
Humphrey expects me, I think.” 

“Oui, Madame. In his study, Madame.” The 
Japanese bowed with eyes a-twinkle but with all his 
old, irreproachable deference. And he led the way, 
announcing her at the drawn portieres. 

Sir Humphrey stood facing her, his back to the 
study table. The room was in semi-darkness as when 
she had entered it the other night. She could see 
the reflection of flames in the fireplace. She strode 
straight forward and stretched out her hand to the 
financier, and if she trembled inwardly with the 
knowledge that she had entered a lion's den, no 
trace of it showed in her demeanour. 

Sir Humphrey took the proffered hand in his, but 
he did not bow to kiss it, as was his wont. He stood 
gazing into her eyes, with the piercing inquiry and 
amused mastery of what they reflected, that she had 
so often seen in him when he greeted such other 
pretty women as the comtesse Vendome, for in¬ 
stance, who sometimes entered his retreat, always 


192 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


seeking something of him, and always willing to be 
very grateful. 

Mrs. Mayfield recognized his glance as token of 
their altered relation, and she girded herself for com¬ 
bat. Fear left her. The oppressiveness of hating 
Monte Carroll every minute immediately dropped 
from her. She felt a wave of elation, as one who 
loves battle feels in the recognition of a worthy 
antagonist. How often he had sent her out on 
errands of subduing and seducing masculine wills. 
The practice that he had given her should now be 
turned against him. 

“It's a wonderful surprise to see you again,” she 
told him, as if welcoming him cordially to her home. 
“Won’t you sit down?” 

“We were interrupted, as I recall, in our last con¬ 
versation,” was his reply. Still holding to her hand 
he stepped aside to show her two easy chairs drawn 
to the fire, and between them, the sandwiches and 
bucket of champagne, just as if they had never been 
disturbed. “Fve been expecting you would call 
again. Though I did not think it would be so soon.” 

She slipped her cloak from off her shoulders and 
gave it to him, withdrawing her hand from his clasp. 
Then she slipped one arm in his and guided him 
around the table. “How thoughtful of you,” she 
praised, as she regarded the feast. “But where is 
my foot-stool?” He fetched it from beneath the 


THE HEART OF SALOME 193 

table, and as she seated herself, he drew up his high- 
backed chair, closer to her and the fire. 

For a long time they sat silent. Sir Humphrey's 
position obviously was that of letting his guest make 
what overtures she wished, so that he remained 
master of the situation, to grant or to refuse, if there 
were requests. And if there were not to be requests, 
why this surprising visit, after the Mayfield had so 
definitely, not to say dramatically, broken relations 
with him? 

“You have killed men in your time, Humphrey, 
have you not?" . . . The Mayfield broke the 
silence. 

“I never have admitted it." 

“I would like to have one killed," his guest con¬ 
fessed. 

“Better drink a little champagne," he advised. 

She reached for her glass, and he poured. He 
seemed about to leave his glass empty, but at a 
motion from the woman he poured a little into it, and 
they drank together. The Mayfield lifted her glass 
to the level of her eyes, and silently toasted him, a 
gesture he acknowledged only by a wry grin. 

“I want to have a man killed," she continued. 
“We might as well be perfectly frank with each 
other, and forget dissimulation." 

“If you start being frank, I shall distrust you 
immediately," he cautioned. 

“Oh, women sometimes are." She carelessly 


194 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


acknowledged his insight. “And since I seek noth¬ 
ing but what coincides with your own interests, I 
don’t have to be otherwise. The man 1 want killed 
is the one I stopped you from having tortured the 
other evening; the man who shook you and dropped 
you on the floor.” 

“He has strong hands,” remarked Sir Humphrey 
in recollection. “I should have realized you loved 
him.” 

“You never spoke more truly. I have loved him 
since I was a little girl. But now I hate him.” 

“So that is it. You hate him, now.” 

The woman shuddered. “I could strangle him 
with my own hands. Ugh!” Her fingers clutched 
the empty air, and closed viciously. Then she swung 
her chair a little to face him, and pulling one foot up 
beneath her to sit upon, dangled the other. She re¬ 
treated far into the shadow of the chairs upholstered 
depths, her cheek against its tall back. One of her 
arms was thrown out to rest upon the table, where it 
would fall beneath his gaze, and where the firelight 
would play upon its whiteness and reveal its perfec¬ 
tion. She seemed very little, and very feminine, and 
having shown the claws of the cat, she now sheathed 
them, and displayed the pretty soft fur and daintiness 
of the kitten. 

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” Sir 
Humphrey quoted, a cool and well placed barb, while 
his eyes were appreciating her. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


195 


“C’est vrai” the Mayfield admitted. “I’m glad 
you remember it. You have been such a good friend 
to me. And more! The other evening you did me 
a great honour. And 1 have been such a little fool. 
But were you ever in love?” 

“Until the other evening,” parried the financier. 

“Did hate replace your love?” 

“It did not. Hate never helps me to ruin my 
enemies.” 

“It might help you to kill them.” 

“1 never would kill a person I hated. Because 
then he would be beyond reach of harm. If you hate 
a man terribly, his life should be precious to you. 
Once he’s dead, you can’t hurt him.” 

“Well, I hate one, and I would love to kill him.” 

“Meaning Monsieur Carroll, alias Starrett. 
Well, so would 1. 1 am perfectly willing to kill him. 

But not because I hate him. Simply because he’s a 
dangerous stumbling block in a scheme I have.” 

Mrs. Mayfield started upright. “Oh!” she cried. 
“So I needn’t have come to you at all.” Then she 
settled back in her chair. “Only I’m glad 1 did. 
1 want to tell you how sorry I am that 1 interfered 
with you the other night. As for the request you 
made then,—I really could not consent, though I 
would just as soon—far rather—marry you than any¬ 
one I know.” 

“Thanks ” His response was ironic. 


196 THE HEART OF SALOME 

“Isn’t that something to be pleased about?” she 
asked, defensively. Then she rose and stepped over 
the thick fur rug before the grate. She laid one arm 
along the mantel, and turned to face him. Her lithe 
loveliness was silhouetted against the glow from the 
flickering fire. She was triumphantly aware that he 
was admiring what a picture she made. “That’s 
more than I’ve ever told any man but Dan Mayfield, 
who is dead, and one other, who is apt to die soon. 
You see I am very frank with you.” 

“You are sure you hate him bitterly enough to kill 
him?” Sir Humphrey asked. 

“Ugh! Don’t talk of him any more. The very 
thought of him makes me see red, and turn ill. And 
as long as you are sure that he is a stumbling block 
in your path I don’t need to worry any more. So 
perhaps I’d better go home and go to bed. Though 
it’s very cozy and comfy here before your fire.” 

The muscles of Sir Humphrey’s throat tightened. 
His eyes narrowed to steel-like points to pierce her. 
“Won’t you sit down,” he asked. “I have several 
things to say to you.” 

It was a thinly veiled command, and the woman 
recognized it as such. “It’s very late,” she half 
demurred, glancing toward the clock, “but a few 
minutes more won’t hurt us, since we’ve already de¬ 
fied numerous conventions.” Then she obeyed him, 
alertly on guard. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


197 


“I have known for some time that this man 
Carroll was an opponent of mine,” said Sir 
Humphrey, "but only in business. And very few 
men on earth are serious antagonists for me there. I 
have always the weapon of money, either to buy them 
or ruin them. I would have liked to buy this 
Carroll. He has the rare virtue of loyalty, beyond 
most men. But the other night when you went to 
his rescue so gallantly, on one of the three occasions 
in my life when my temper had beaten me, I saw 
that he was a more serious opponent than a com¬ 
mercial one. He was an opponent in an affair of 
the heart,—and in one which is dearer to me 
than any commercial success. You know what thaf 
heart's venture is. I told you of it just before the 
intruder entered. Do not think for an instant that I 
have given it up. I want you.—And I will have 
you.—What I want I always take.” 

The Mayfield felt a moment's fear, and because 
she was frightened, she laughed at him, even as his 
clenched fist was descending upon the arm of his 
chair to emphasize the "always take.” 

"I know you do normally, Humphrey, but some¬ 
times you find the thing you’ve set your heart on 
isn’t worth the taking. It’s a question of values. 
What’ll you spend for this thing or that? You 
never pay much for something worth little. If you 
did you wouldn’t be where you are.” 

"You are laughing,” he shot back at her, "be- 


198 THE HEART OF SALOME 

cause you are a little afraid. But you need not be. 
You are too brainy a woman, and I want more of you 
than I could ever buy. I want your devotion. And 
I will win it. I have everything you need, or could 
want, to offer in return for it.—Meanwhile,-” 

He broke off and strode to the telephone. Lifting 
it from its receiver he spoke to an invisible voice, 
“Get me Monsieur Lepage at the prefecture of po¬ 
lice,’’ he said. Then turning back to the Mayfield 
he told her he had something interesting to show 
her. 

“It is Monsieur TV of the friends of ‘le Presi¬ 
dent du Conseif who is talking/' he continued over 
the telephone when a croaking upon the wire told 
him his connection had been made. “I wish your 
latest reports upon ‘dossier DM and dossier DW/ 
if you please." 

As he waited for the information he talked to the 
Mayfield once more. “An admirable system this of 
the Paris police. No one in the world but the Presi¬ 
dent of the Council himself, the prefect of police, and 
M. Lepage, his night assistant, know the existence 
of the list of friends of the premier in police records. 
And whom the file includes is known only to the 
premier and one or two of his friends. We com¬ 
municate with the police by our lettered identities, 
directing them to the proper ‘dossiers’ and get what 
information their detectives have gained, almost up 
to the minute. The detectives know only what they 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


199 


are instructed to learn, without any knowledge of 
where their information goes. In that way many 
complications are avoided/’ 

The croaking voice had resumed upon the wire, 
and the financier listened, a slight frown upon his 
brow. When the voice stopped he acknowledged his 
thanks and hung up the receiver. 

“Your friend. Monsieur Carroll, left for Mar¬ 
seilles on the eleven o’clock train to-night, accom¬ 
panied by his boy companion, M. Redfern,’’ he re¬ 
marked. “An agent of the police goes in the same 
car. And by the way, did you have a pleasant time 
this evening at the Theatre Tremina with your 
friends, M. Mainwaring, the Englishman, and the 
artist, Galuppi?’’ 

The Mayfield was not as surprised by the revela¬ 
tion of the Titan’s close touch with the police as she 
might have been had she not seen a little of his in¬ 
trigues from the angle of a participant. But she 
dropped him the word of admiration which he so 
patently desired. “You certainly have a most ad¬ 
mirable system of espionage.’’ 

“In France, yes. No other country can equal the 
French for able detectives, though Scotland Yard 
does well enough. The Germans make stupid blun¬ 
ders because they have little imagination or sympathy 
with the pursued. The Scotland Yarder has only an 
intellectual contact with him. But your French 


200 THE HEART OF SALOME 

policeman understands the psychology of his quarry, 
and so runs him down most surely/' 

The Mayfield commented, "You have been known 
to use Americans.” 

"An American woman, yes. I am sorry in a way 
to lose you, Madame, from my personnel in that ser¬ 
vice, but you will be infinitely more valuable to me 
in another relation—and I more value to you. Don’t 
forget that. 

"As for Monsieur Carroll, don’t worry about him 
any more. Misfortune is bound to overtake him 
shortly, though he has the devil’s own luck. Fernand 
is supposed to be the stealthiest assassin of all the 
Apache district, but the other night as he intercepted 
M. Carroll on the pont de Grenelle, where your friend 
was taking a most indiscreet midnight stroll, Carroll 
turned upon him like a flash. He caught his knife 
and tossed it over the railing of the bridge into the 
Seine, and then tossed Fernand after it. Luckily the 
rat could swim.” 

"You sent this Fernand?” 

"I never send anyone. Only some of my sub¬ 
ordinates know the men who displease me most, and 
they are not meticulous in their methods of getting 
rid of my annoyances. Mr. Carroll happens to have 
annoyed me greatly.” 

"He insulted me,” the woman said. "I wonder 
that you make me such a confidential offer if my 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


201 


character is as bad as I am told. I am a thoroughly 
bad woman, Humphrey. I would undoubtedly sell 
you out for a passing fancy in the way of an affaire 
de cceur” 

“You are too clever. You know my power too 
well. Only one man has menaced me, your early 
sweetheart, and he is as good as dead now. 1 will 
tell you more. The clock has almost struck my hour 
for open ascendancy. Central Europe and the Near 
East are in turmoil. Russia is in the hands of men 
who welcome every world disturbance. Your country 
is far away, and too wise to become mixed up in 
European broils, with the aeroplanes of Japan liable 
soon to cloud its Pacific skies. 

“Within the month I will tip over the puny regent 
of a country habituated for centuries to the rule of 
kings. His people are impoverished. His army has 
neither shoes nor clothes. His railroads are run 
down, and his currency is worthless. His country 
has no credit. 

“To-day is the day of the business man. The 
Parliament will offer the management of the 
country's affairs and resources to a business man, 
under parliamentary guidance, forsooth,—as if any 
'two-sous' political committee could check a man of 
affairs who knows what he wants. I will come out 
from behind my mask. I will permit myself to be 
named manager of this run-down land. And my 


202 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


very name will help put the country on its feet. All 
Europe knows the source of the money when loans 
are needed for most of its armies and much of its 
government. From my oil fields, and mines, and 
forests, and ships, my plains of wheat and my muni¬ 
tion factories. Even the League of Nations will 
cheer at another country on its way to stability. 

“And when the country is stable, with its army’s 
stomach filled, good leather on its feet, and up-to-the- 
minute weapons in its hands, and its railroads are 
running, and its people are working for a wage that 
will support life in the forests and fields and mines 
which are running to waste, the ‘reds’ will revolt. 
I will set them in revolt, as I have done before. 
Then the most popular and able man in the country 
will be made dictator. The people are not used to 
governing themselves. They are used to kings. And 
from the dictatorship to a crown, with the huzzahs of 
a subservient parliament is a child’s step. 

“And you, Diane, will be with me in the fetes 
and the flowers, and you will receive the affection of 
a people made happy and prosperous by their king. 

Mrs. Mayfield raised both arms above her head 
and stretched and yawned. “It sounds worth con¬ 
sidering, Humphrey,” she said. “I certainly wish 
you luck. But I am a bad woman. I am most in¬ 
terested now in having one man hurt. If I can help 
you, let me know, only don’t forget what I want.” 

She rose and donned her cloak. Sir Humphrey 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


203 


rang the chauffeurs bell. He took both her hands 
and clasped them tightly in his. “Good night, my 
queen,” he said, and raising her hands to his lips 
he kissed them. 


CHAPTER XII 

She had been branded "bad” by the man whom she 
loved. Why take the name without gaining some 
rewards of the game? Granted that she was bad, 
thought the Mayfield, admitting that she was a 
thoroughly wicked woman, it was no disgrace in the 
international group of ultra-rich pleasure seekers who 
made Paris the gayest spot on earth. It was no dis¬ 
grace in a city where from ancient times the mistresses 
of the rich and rulers of earth had been endowed with 
the awed fascination of the people; where pretty 
midinettes and shop girls lifted to the rank of un¬ 
crowned queens had been the inspiration for building 
the palaces and sylvan retreats where now the world 
gathered to wonder and admire at ancient splendours. 

Take any fashionable gathering at smart hotel or 
theatre or concert, she reflected, and try to pick out 
which women were the wives of respectable business 
men of America; who were the peeresses of the British 
aristocracy; who were the leaders of the stage from all 
continents; who were the daughters of that prolific 
aristocracy of coal, iron, steel, wheat, corn, cattle, and 

204 


THE HEART OF SALOME 205 

oil owners; and who were the demi~mondaines, who 
were the women present only because they were pos¬ 
sessed of beauty and wit and charm, and because they 
lacked the scruple, or the handicap of superstition, 
that would have prevented their selling their values to 
anyone who would bid high enough, provided he suit 
their taste. It would be rather a hard task to dis¬ 
tinguish between them, except that usually the cloth¬ 
ing and jewels and cars and all material goods of the 
demi-mondaines were a little smarter, a little more 
gorgeous and ornate than those of the women which 
the old world pleased to call society. 

Man in the old world, having the upper hand of 
his women, frequently lavished more upon his mistress 
than upon his wife, if he belonged to that privileged 
group which flaunted its mistresses more or less 
openly. In the new world, people had not yet reached 
that stage of civilization where the satisfaction of the 
senses had won a final victory over those sterner 
moralities which enable nations to become great. 
There were some signs in America that the conflict 
was now in process, that the germs of disintegration 
were eating day by day more deeply into the morale 
of a strong people. But the country was still too 
close to the stage where everyone toiled healthily as a 
producer, for its rich to have quite succumbed to the 
enervating forces of over-luxury and idleness. 

Therefore women still held the whip hand over their 
men, who placed them on pedestals of respect. When 


206 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


the men rose to power and wealth, it was usually the 
wives and daughters who profited thereby, and no il¬ 
licit "daughters of joy.” Diane often had witnessed 
the misunderstanding upon the continent whereby the 
playful young wives of solidly middle-aged Amer¬ 
ican business men, dressed and massaged and "well- 
kept” to the point of over-smartness, had been mis¬ 
taken by European gentlemen for demi-mondaines; 
by European gentlemen of the best intentions in the 
world, who would no sooner have insulted a strange 
lady than they would have worn a dinner jacket down 
the streets in the morning, but who had no diffidence 
about broaching the subject of amorous affairs to 
daughters of the ancient trade no matter how formid¬ 
ably clad, if their purses could afford such expense. 

At first these things had shocked and angered her, 
but as she had lived year after year in a society where 
they attracted no comment other than that of amuse¬ 
ment, she had gradually accepted them as the 
natural state of a world where human frailty was 
recognized to be the rule. 

She had come to realize that the abstract idea, or 
the purposeful ideal, of virtue in man or woman was 
something for romanticists to write fanciful and 
sentimental stories about, and for comedians to evoke 
as material for laughter. 

In spite of this environment she had steadfastly 
maintained her own integrity in the affairs of sex, and 
taken pride in doing so, as a woman of high tradi- 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


207 


tions. As such a woman, she really lived the life 
which in her circle was regarded either as a polite 
fiction for wives, or a faithfulness due to caution not 
to lose the possession of earthly advantages granted 
by a well-to-do husband. 

She had been misjudged and misunderstood, she 
knew, in this polyglot circle of mad sensuality, even 
by those who recognized that she was unapproach¬ 
able. How she had raged against the entire male 
species, as hideous satyrs, when she learned how 
grossly they misunderstood her. Then she had with¬ 
drawn into a small circle of intimate friends, like 
Hubert Main waring, good, old, honest, Anglo-Saxon 
Hubert; and Sir Humphrey, who for a long time 
treated her only as an able employee in whose com¬ 
pany he took pleasure; and Coudikis, the banker, too 
wrapt in business for experiments at psycho-analysis, 
who gave her profitable tips upon the movements of 
the Bourse and was content to lumber about her with 
something like the air of a big St. Bernard dog amused 
by the pretty antics of a kitten; and Bezanne, her 
favourite artist, and some of the other wielders of the 
brush, because they were not quite like other men, but 
held in their make-ups a queer streak, perhaps insane, 
perhaps over-sensitized, surely a little feminine, and 
not to be damned with the rest of bearded humanity. 

The Mayfield was considerably hardened, she 
realized when she awoke in her home the next morn¬ 
ing after her visit to Sir Humphrey's, to the evils of 


208 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


this world she lived in. The gentle and tender heart 
of that erstwhile Diane Barrett, that little sentimental 
girl in Boston, Massachusetts, whom she used to be, 
had donned both coat and mail and armour plate in a 
worldly woman’s knowledge. 

Since she was irretrievably labelled as one of the 
bad, it should not be difficult to enjoy the fruits of 
wickedness, and all the spice of reckless life. She 
awakened with a dreamy yawn of contentment, 
stretching her warm arms out from beneath their 
covering to greet the freshness of the sunlit air, when 
Lysiane threw back the shutters. But as the maid 
shuffled out to bring her chocolate and rolls and mail 
she realized that the cloud which had been across the 
sun yesterday was still there; that she hated Monte 
Carroll so fiercely that her heart would break; that 
she was a vile person; and that she was going to have 
him killed. She was glad of that last. 

“I will be as wicked as Messalina,” she said to 
herself, with her chin firm, and teeth tightly shut, and 
her eyes winking back the tears. 'This old town has 
seen its Madame du Barrys and Pompadours. I’ll 
show it wickedness with a little Yankee efficiency.” 

Then she fell to considering. She would not be Sir 
Humphrey’s wife. She would flout him after he had 
killed Monte. Being a queen was too deadly dull. 
She had seen several. First of all she would acquire 
a mansion on the avenue du Bois de Boulogne where 
she would have a smart and witty salon that would 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


209 


make any gathering at Mme. Cleone’s villa at Neuilly 
look like the hum-drum social hour of a bourgeois 
family from the provinces. 

She would stage such revels there, with the help of 
costumers, decorators, caterers, artists, and per¬ 
formers, as would shock this stupidly wicked city 
right out of its blase satiety. And men of wealth 
should pay, and her amours must be the amazement 
of the Continent. 'Til forget that stupid oaf/' she 
determined. "Til show them all.” 

And as she revelled in her rage, Lysiane entered 
with her breakfast, and placing it on her lap, saw 
that her mistress's eyes were very sad. 

“Mais, Madame , qu’est-ce quil y a?” she asked. 

"Nothing is the matter with me, silly,” said the 
Mayfield. "I have been foolish enough to let things 
make me unhappy, but now I am going to be very 
gay ” 

"You should find it easy,” said the maid. "Is 
not everyone gay in Paris in the spring?” 

"Gay as the devil in hell,” answered her mistress 
with a crooked smile, and fell to eating her rolls. 
The maid regarded her in wonder, sighed, shook her 
head with a troubled spirit, and crossed herself as 
she withdrew. 

"This town has seen some famous women of light 
loves,” said Diane to herself. "Historians will write 
me down as the greatest. Perhaps I should write a 


210 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


diary,—not a stupid line-a-day book, but a real 
journal of my acquaintances and my lovers. I be¬ 
lieve 1 11 do that.” 

And she wondered how eight or ten volumes in 
attractive red leather bindings with gilt lettering, 
would look on a shelf with her name upon them, years 
after she was gone. “The Memoirs of Madame 
Mayfield,”—ah! She could see them there in her 
bookcase. And on the frontispiece of the first volume 
she would be reclining on a divan gracefully clad in 
white, holding a book in her hand, as a token that 
she was not only a very beautiful woman, the reign¬ 
ing beauty of her age, but an authoress as well. 

Her picture by Galuppi and Bezanne would be in 
them, and the new one Bezanne was making. That 
would help. It would unquestionably give even blase 
Paris a fillip to its jaded palate when she invited art 
connoisseurs to see that picture in her mansion on the 
avenue, and since Bezanne was a noted master of the 
nude, and she was to be even more famous a person¬ 
age, it would undoubtedly hang in the Louvre. 

'Til make this town sit up and gasp.” 

She sprang out of bed at last. 

“And the first thing to do is to go down and see 
Papa Coudikis who shall buy me my mansion. He's 
a nice fat thing and he's rich.” 

So she went to his marble-front bank, just round 
the corner from the majestic pillars of the Bourse. 
She swept past the quickets where many people were 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


211 


engaged in handing money into his keeping, and 
smilingly past the uniformed guardian of his sanc¬ 
tum. She walked brazenly into his presence, where 
from a mahogany desk he arose to greet her. 

“Good morning, Papa,” she said. “What is the 
price of a grain of wheat to-day? Is it lower or 
higher than it will be to-morrow?” 

“Why wheat, my child?” he asked. “I am busy 
to-day with steel rails, which are shaking like a man 
with a fever.” 

“Oh, rails will do just as well. But I feel very 
poor, and that means investing my sous to jump 
quickly into the franc column. You know all about 
such things.” 

And she had timed her visit so nicely that the clock 
on the mantel struck twelve as she had expected it to. 
The banker looked at the clock in surprise. 

“So late?” he said in disgust, “and I had just 
begun to work. I think we might invest in some 
lunch. The returns are quicker even than rails, and 
we can’t lose if we go to Montague.” 

“No, no,” she demurred. “If we are to go to 
lunch I want you to motor me out to the Chateau de 
Madrid, because I have something to show you.” 

Her request was tantamount to an order. They 
walked to the banker’s limousine and were whirled 
away. 

Sliding swiftly along the avenue Bois de Boulogne 
she pointed to the palatial homes, surrounded by their 


212 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


gardens, and high fences, and great scrolled iron 
gates, with the little cabins of the gate keepers, each 
window decked with flower boxes. Opposite them 
she placed one hand affectionately upon the banker’s 
fat knee and gazed into his eye. Motioning to them 
broadly, she asked. “Papa Coudikis, do you see 
those houses?” 

“I would rather look at you, my dear.” 

“I’d rather you would. But look at them a min¬ 
ute. I want one of them.” 

“Such big houses for such a little woman. And 
your apartment fits you like the satin box that holds 
a jewelled ring.” 

“I know. But I am a little lonely in my little 
home. I am looking for a great mansion, where I 
can entertain large parties. And because 1 am not so 
rich I am looking for a very wealthy man who will 
be glad to buy it for me. You are rich, I know, 
though perhaps not rich enough for that. But you 
know who the rich ones really are. You bankers al¬ 
ways do. While I only see how rich they appear.” 

“I could buy several of those houses, child, with¬ 
out hurting me. You want some rich young man to 
marry you? Why not Andre de Fouquine? He has 
more than any other young man in France.” 

“Such a stupid Papa! I was married once, and I 
did not like it. It is so hard to lose a husband once 
one has him. And I think a man about fifty would be 
much more comfortable than one so young, he would 


THE HEART OF SALOME 213 

be unfaithful to me. Perhaps Monsieur Xydiarde 
would do.” (She named a rival banker whom M. 
Coudikis hated violently.) “He has a handsome 
profile.” 

“He is a swine.” 

“He is very wealthy, is he not?” 

“I could buy and sell him.” 

“Why I had no idea! It takes great cleverness 
to be a financier, does it not? Well, you must run 
over the list of your better clients, and tell me about 
them. And if you recommend me,—or introduce 
me,—you can be sure I will not rub their rough 
beards so,-” 

She rasped his wiry whiskers upward brusquely, 
with her one free hand. Her eyes were smiling very 
close to his. “Because that strikes sparks, and 
would make them growl unhappily. I would stroke 
their fur gently downward. So!—That would make 
them purr with contentment.” 

The banker laughed, but it was a nervous laugh. 
His trembling hand that lifted hers from his beard 
showed that he was troubled, at least by the sad sus¬ 
picion he was about to spend a great deal of money 
foolishly. His eyes met hers. 

“You are a little siren,” he accused. “You would 
even lure old Papa Coudikis toward the rocks. 
Have you no conscience?” 

The Mayfield drew back coldly, and sat apart, very 


214 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


distantly. “I was asking your advice, merely,” she 
stated, with distinct hauteur. “I thought you were 
my friend.” 

There was silence for several long moments, till the 
banker leaned toward her. “A house is only a 
house,” he informed her. ‘That is a very modest 
request? And you did right to come to me.” 

His companion interrupted him with a peal of 
laughter. “Oh. I've forgotten all about the house,” 
she said, “I was thinking of lunch. We're almost 
there.” 

And at luncheon she rattled inconsequentially about 
a hundred trifles, and chaffed his every effort to wax 
sentimental, till he sulked, exasperated. She did not 
care. Her mind was in a turmoil. She raged at 
herself for stirring within him the ugliness that had 
brought into his eyes the gleam which recalled Dan 
Mayfield. She raged at all men, and the sorry 
scheme of life that did not contain a wickedness 
more lightly entertaining and less tawdry. 

Of one thing she was certain. They might label her 
bad,—and “they” meant the one man who counted, 
Monte Carroll, but she could not enter into any li¬ 
aison on a sheerly mercenary basis. She was glad 
when she dropped the banker at his bank, and he had 
bade his chauffeur to take her where she desired. 

“The old fat fool,” she denounced him to herself. 
But sadness had taken the place of rage against him, 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


215 

because he had been a very pleasant friend, and she 
knew that through her fault and hers alone she had 
brought on a situation which would always cast a 
shadow over her friendship for him. 

“I am the fool/' she accused herself. “The lot of 
an old man’s darling ought to have been so 
thoroughly exposed to me with Dan that I should 
never have dreamed of it.” She sank back in the 
tonneau and wondered what she would do, while the 
chauffeur sat immobile and patiently before her. 
The passing throngs upon the avenue all filled their 
eyes with her pensive loveliness. 

“Such a stupid formula for wickedness,—wine, 
women and song. I hate people who get tipsy and 
ridiculous, and both men and women are either ob¬ 
noxious or bores- 

“Drive me to Claridge’s, fast,” she ordered the 
chauffeur. The great car glided into motion. 

Once on the road to the hotel she caught a glimpse 
of a tall, broad-shouldered figure, striding upon the 
sidewalk at the pace which only Americans in Paris 
can take, a man carrying no cane, arms swinging and 
erect, amidst the leisurely idle promenaders. Her 
heart leaped and cried, “Monte.” But leaning for¬ 
ward from her seat she saw it was not he, and ridi¬ 
culed herself bitterly, for she knew he had gone to 
Marseilles.—And she was going to forget him,—He 
would pay the price soon for having insulted her. 



2 l6 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


At Claridge’s sunken garden, alone at her table, she 
ordered a highball, an ancient American liquor, which 
Europe had caught like a torch from the newer con¬ 
tinent’s failing hands. .She drank it in furious gulps, 
glaring at empty space. She was in reckless mood 
to-day, and she thirsted for excitement. Failing 
excitement, there was another highball. 

Hubert Mainwaring came strolling in as was his 
custom. 

"Hello, old dear/’ he said, carelessly dropping into 
the vacant seat across from her. "You look as if 
you had swallowed something nasty.” 

"I’m just getting used to my role as a bad woman,” 
she said harshly. "Be careful of your associates.” 

"You talk such damn rot,” he growled. "Let’s 
have another drink, and dance some of the gloom out 
of our systems. Wasn’t la Djina a marvel?” 

"When are you going to make peace with your 
Madge?” 

"Not till she regains her senses.” 

The Mayfield smiled sadly. "You’re a dear, 
Hubert, to be so loyal to me. I’m almost inclined to¬ 
day to marry you. You’re so unspoiled and sweet. 
But it would be about the most wicked thing I 
could do.” 

"Come out of it. You need to be shaken.” 

"Shake well before taking?” she jibed. 

“Gargon!” he called. "I know I’ll never take you, 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


217 


so why tease me. You're one step above me." He 
made a sweeping gesture to the servant. 'Two 
more." 

She watched him as he sat there, big and broad and 
comfortably solid, devoid of irritable brilliance, rich 
enough for anyone, clean of limb, and a man who had 
fought for his empire. Faithful to his traditions he 
was waiting carelessly for the time when he should do 
the customary respectable thing with the title which 
he would inherit. He would manage his estate as 
thriftily as possible. He would look paternally after 
the well-being of his tenants on broad farms and a 
couple of factory towns (where they did not conflict 
with his interests). He would marry and breed a 
family to include a son, so that the family line might 
be carried on after he was sleeping in the crypt of an 
old Norman church, beside his grandsires. He would 
travel far and near, play a little golf and polo fairly 
well, and hold much liquor like a gentleman. 

"You're pretty fine, Hubert," she mused. "But 
somehow you don’t strike the proper spark. I’d 
like to have a very violent affair with you, but 1 like 
you too much. It would be mean. And I’m sure I 
couldn’t marry you." 

Aloud she said, smiling into his eyes, "Here’s look¬ 
ing at you." 

And he replied, "Cheerio!" 

Perhaps she might indeed marry Sir Humphrey. 


2l8 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


But she did not want to. And that left the artist, 
Henri,—dear Henri, engrossed in his canvasses and 
his search of the beautiful, in his little attic studio, 
with his impudent cat and his funny, sweet old 
mother. She would go and play with him, perhaps 
flirt with him a little, but that would settle nothing. 
For she knew she could not marry him either. He 
was probably the most impossible person for a hus¬ 
band of any of her friends. But she could at least 
have a fairly satisfactory, temporary romance with 
him. And then she thought of his mothers plea to 
her on the studio stairs: 

“You will not hurt my son!” 

The poor old thing would be jealous of her, Diane 
knew. Henri was bound to be hurt when she left him. 
Then she exasperatedly denied that she would hurt 
either of them. ‘Til inspire him,” she told herself. 
“He’ll do even more wonderful work with me for a 
model. And artists are made, not ruined by love. 
What more does a woman want than romance and 
security in riches? Henri can give me my romance, 
and Sir Humphrey my wealth. I’ll find plenty to fill 
my life even with Monte Carroll out of it. And he’ll 
be out of every other woman’s life, too,—and out 
of his own.” 

And she relapsed into a dark storm-cloud mood, in 
which she hated Monte, herself, her associates, and 
most of all the empty, unsatisfying life of getting up 
and lying down, dressing and undressing, going 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


219 

always to the same old restaurants, theatres, and 
dances, with the same old crowd, eating and drink¬ 
ing, day after day, the same things in the same way, 
hearing the same stale gossip and the same inane 
chatter, buying dresses and watching those on other 
women.—Everything, everything was wrong and she 
most wrong of all. 

The image that flashed most often across this 
thunder-blackness, like lightning suddenly illuminat¬ 
ing a sombre earth, was that of the white-limbed 
Djina Nuova in her agony of pleading. 

“Jokanaan, your lips are red as the cherries that 
hang in the gardens of Tyre. I would kiss your lips, 
Jokanaan. Your hair is black as the shadows be¬ 
neath the pines of Lebanon. I would bury my face 
in your hair, Jokanaan/' 

The music of grief, from a dozen muted violins was 
pouring madness through her ears, and Djina with 
her ghostly pallor flecked with diamond fires was 
dancing insanely before her eyes. 

“The head of John the Baptist? You did well to 
demand it, Salome!" 

Diane's reverie was broken by Hubert. “Jolly 
little conversationalist, aren’t you?" he twitted her. 
“Let's dance a bit. They are starting in the other 
room." 

“Dance for me, Salome." They were dancing in 
the other room, but the word in her ears turned her 
surely back into her angry memories. “All right," 


220 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


she agreed. "Just one dance, and then I've some 
telephoning to do." 

She danced the dance through furiously, as if she 
herself were the mad daughter of Herodias, con¬ 
sumed by flames of thwarted desire and rage at the 
insulting ascetic. 

"What have I to do with you, daughter of evil." 

"Not only does he refuse to see me, he refuses to 
let his sister have anything to do with me, because I 
am bad, because I am so soiled that if she brushes 
by me she will become contaminated!" 

When the dance was ended Mrs. Mayfield fled to 
the telephone booth and called Sir Humphrey. 

"Your friend," said the arch-plotter coolly, and 
guardedly, "has unfortunately gone into a bad 
country, where there are some people called Touaregs 
who specialize in cutting throats. Have you read 
to-day’s papers?" 

"No,—tell me." 

"The Fascisti have seized the reins of power in 
Slovenia. A revolutionary committee has announced 
that with the organization of the new parliament an 
economic expert will be called in to run the country 
by efficient business management backed by the 
militia." 

"And that means?" 

"That means everything is advancing satisfac¬ 
torily." 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


221 


“Wonderful!” the Mayfield called to him. But 
when her receiver was replaced upon the hook it was 
with a vicious slam, and her eyes were nearly blinded 
by tears. “Give me the head of the Baptist,” she 
laughed hysterically. 


CHAPTER XIII 

“Give me the head of the Baptist.” 

Diane leaned against the door of the telephone 
booth and her head reeled dizzily. Her heart was a 
heavy, hard, cold lump in her breast, and she knew 
her world was in ruins. “I’m wicked, bad,” she 
said to herself, “just as Monte said. But I don’t 
care. I have humbled myself for him too much. 
And life has not played squarely with me. I’ll have 
another little drink, and another little dance, and 
then-” 

The utter emptiness of the future stunned her. 
“And then?” Still another little drink, and another 
dance, another game of bridge perhaps, and another 
flirtation, and then perhaps she would buy another 
gown. 

“God knows I’ve gowns in plenty. What I want 
is to be loved. I'm tired of living in a house with a 
cuisiniere, a maid, and a dog. I’d like to live in a 
house with a man, and love him, and manage him, 
and wash the face of a little boy baby, and pick him 
222 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


223 


up and kiss his bumps when he tumbles on the floor, 
and dress a little girl baby in silks and laces and send 
her out with her nurse to parade on the Champs 
Elysee. But I won’t. That’s why 1 hate Monte 
Carroll. He could have given me that, and I could 
have given him—more happiness than he ever 
dreamed of. But he wouldn't. 1 wasn't good 
enough for him, nor for his blessed family to have 
anything to do with. ‘A man doesn’t marry for 
himself alone,’ he says, 'but he marries someone fit 
to mother his children. And you’ve robbed a boy, 
and are the—shall we say daughter of M. 
Lecouvreur?’—Well when he's dead and gone there 
will still be plenty of men to love and marry me,— 
but nobody I want.” 

She set her mouth in a hard straight line, to keep 
her lips from drooping at the corners. She closed 
her eyelids tightly, then opened them on the same 
hateful too-familiar hotel lobby. “1 must get out 
of this place.” 

She rushed to the street and hailed a taxi-cab. 
“Drive me—drive me anywhere,—to the Gare de 
l’Est,—up the boulevards till I tell you to stop.” 

She motioned sweepingly into the distance, and 
climbing into the cab slammed the door shut behind 
her. Such a smiling happy crowd of people on the 
boulevards! Her taxi was dodging in and out of the 
traffic with breath-taking lurches, careening toward 
the big motor 'busses. Perhaps the driver was drunk 


224 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


and would smash her up. She did not care much. 
Evidently he had mistaken her agitation for anxiety 
to get to the Gare de l’Est. She had just as soon go 
to the Gare Montparnasse or anywhere else. A 
depot was a good place to go. She ought to leave 
Paris. Everybody was too happy in it. They 
mocked her. 

“What I want is somebody to love me.” She 
thought of Henri Bezanne. Was she not his goddess 
of love? Was he not painting her picture as 
“Love Awakening”? But Henri was in love with 
an ideal. He loved beauty alone. Well,—she was 
the very personification of beauty. Had he not said 
so? 

She would go to his studio, and they would get on 
with the picture. Perhaps when the dreaming, un¬ 
worldly painter came to the finishing colours of all 
her loveliness, and when he was wrapt in contempla¬ 
tion of just how exquisite a woman she was, he would 
be stirred out of his dreams of shadows and grasp at 
the reality of beauty before him, and seek to make it 
his to live with and love and worship forever. 

She leaned out of the window and called to her 
driver. She gave him the painters address. 
“Hurry,” she said, a madness possessing her to get 
on, to move, to attain an excitement that would lift 
her out of herself and her unhappiness. She pictured 
the studio to which she was going, with its great win¬ 
dows opening on the blue sky and distant white 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


225 


clouds, and the homely friendliness of funny little 
Mme. Bezanne, puttering about her son’s service. 

“You will not hurt my son/’ the older woman’s 
voice came pleading in her ear, and Mrs. Mayfield 
cried out defensively, “I don’t want to hurt anyone. 
But everyone hurts me. I have to live for myself. 
I’ll not hurt Henri. I’ll make his genius bloom into 
a greatness that all the world shall recognize.” 

She was at the studio at last. She took the first 
flight of stairs almost at a run, and hurried even 
up the final exhausting one, to beat upon the door 
impatiently. 

“My dear, dear friend,” she cried to Henri when 
he opened the door. “How I have neglected you! 
We must get on with the picture, or you will lose all 
desire to finish me. I am a most unreliable model, 
but I know you will forgive me. You alone, Henri, 
are—Tidele,’—my other lovers are neither constant 
nor true.” 

She laughed excitedly, looking down at his un¬ 
kempt mane of thick black hair. He was bending 
over her hands to kiss them. Glancing about the 
room she saw they were alone. “And your mother, 
-?” she inquired. 

“Ma chere Maman is not well. She has gone to 
a clinic. Poor woman. She suffers from that which 
will seize us all before long,—old age.” 

“Not us, Henri, for years.” She stepped back a 
pace from his eyes, which were regarding her with 


226 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


puzzled expression. “Do I look as if I were grow¬ 
ing old? Is that why nobody loves me? I doubt 
that. My mirror tells me I am not so far from a girl, 
and pretty enough to make a debut. That's why you 
must get me on canvas so that when I am old I shall 
be able to sit in my boudoir, and say to myself, i 
used to be that beautiful woman hanging on the 
wall.’ I shall take a great deal of comfort in that, 
alone with my dog and maybe a canary. I'll have 
to buy a canary." 

“Madame,—Madame, what saddens you to-day 
that you are so very merry?" 

“Nothing at all, Henri, that you and the peace of 
the studio cannot make well. I love this little re¬ 
treat from the world, and lying on the dais for you 
to paint I can think and dream in peace. You are 
not busy this afternoon?" 

“Only at your command." 

“Then I will get ready, if you will arrange my 
mirror and screen, and bring me my warm woolly 
robe. Maman will return soon?" 

“Quite soon, mon amie." The artist was study¬ 
ing her closely, as she stripped off her gloves, and 
unpinned her hat. Her cheeks were burning, and 
her eyes shone with unnatural brilliance. 

“We have dallied too long over the painting, for 
one of my impatient temper,—I could never be an 
artist. I haven't the slow perseverance. I like to 
see results, fast." She stabbed her hat with its pins. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


227 


and stepping over to the cot by the screen, which 
had been her disrobing room, dropped it. “I 
really must have the screen, Henri,” she laughed 
nervously, “1 haven’t yet acquired the professional 
insouciance .—What are you waiting for?” 

The artist strode silently up to her, and she awaited 
him, confused, embarrassed. He held her shoulders 
in both his hands, and looked into her eyes, and all 
at once she felt shamefaced and rebellious, like a 
little schoolgirl who has been up to mischief and 
knows that an interrogation is coming from an elder 
who while loving her, still is passing judgment upon 
her. 

“Someone has been hurting you, Diane.” 

She noticed that he used her given name, and could 
not recall that he had ever done so before. His look 
was brimming with sympathy, and that disturbed 
her. She did not wish to remember that she needed 
sympathy. What she had come to Henri’s for was to 
forget everything beyond the studio,—to stir his love, 
not to awaken his pity. She couldn’t stand pity, just 
now. 

“We will get ahead with the painting,” he told 
her quietly, “but you will not need to disarrange 
yourself, except for your hair.” He impelled her 
gently down upon the cot. “Sit there and I will 
help you. I’ll be your lady’s maid. What I want 
to paint to-day is your eyes, in the shadow of your 
hair, for they have something in them I never saw 


228 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


before. I don't quite know what it is, and they 
puzzle me." 

He was withdrawing the hairpins, one by one, and 
laying them beside her. She looked up at him, her 
hands folded submissively in her lap. 

“Don’t you like my eyes, to-day?" she asked. 

“I love them every day, Madame,—but to-day 
they worry me. You see, I have learned that where 
you are concerned I am man first and artist second. 
Does that surprise you?" 

Her heart was beating riotously, and she revelled in 
the touch of the strong and gentle fingers that were 
shaking out the long thick masses of her hair, and 
smoothing it till it fell about her like a nun’s veil, a 
refuge into which she could retreat, a crown and a 
cloak, all one, of fragrant softness. 

“No, it doesn’t, Henri. For you see with you, 
though I do not love you quite,—not in the sense we 
usually use the word,—I am always woman first, and 
model second—and the woman is so fond of you that 
she’s come here to-day to forget everyone else." 

“Good," he said briskly. “But be model a little, 
and we’ll talk much. I don’t expect you to love me, 
being content to love you, for there is too vast a 
chasm between our lives to bridge with such a mo¬ 
mentary, delicate, easily shattered emotion as love.— 
Sit here, where the light falls upon you.—Good! 
Now tell me what you have been doing, since we were 
last together." 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


229 


"I have been to the theatre, for one thing/' 

"Rash, foolhardy woman! But I used to go 
before I learned caution." 

"Why foolhardy?" 

"Is not the world full enough of stimuli to emotion 
without our going deliberately to have our peace dis¬ 
turbed? When I wish my heart-strings played upon 
I prefer to be the hand that sets the tune, and not 
some alien spirit, careless of what happens to me 
when I begin to vibrate under his touch. 

"It is marvellous how daring, or how ignorant, 
are the great public who buy theatre seats and books. 
‘Here/ they say, ‘is our thirty francs. Lead us to 
a fauteuil and we will sit passively while you pour 
into us such things as envies, hates, greeds, or loves, 
admirations, ambitions. There is so little in our 
lives that we must enter into the lives of a dozen 
other persons whom you may evoke for us out of the 
good or evil of your mind,—we are careless which. 
We will weep with them, laugh with them, suffer 
with them and triumph with them because they have 
become a part of us/ Surely a man's mastery over 
his ego is too easily overthrown for him to court 
taking into it the characters and emotions of a dozen 
others." 

The Mayfield inwardly charged him with teasing 
her. “We need to share the lives of others," she 
demurred, “and it’s less harrowing to share them 
across footlights or on a printed page, that can be 


230 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


tossed away, than in the persons of real, flesh and 
blood people.” 

“Except that the spectacle of real people is so 
diverse, and so lacking in conclusions, that we can 
treat it purely as a show to enjoy. Whereas no 
novelist and no dramatist is content to do other than 
force some conclusion down one’s throat, some 
principle or belief on which we may find our future 
conduct turning. There is a unity of purpose in a 
play or a book which runs from start to finish, and 
if it is well shaped, we are speared upon it. 

“We can’t wriggle off it. Only the bunglers let us 
escape because they don’t interest us. We wish we 
had our thirty francs back when we are finished with 
them. Yet they lead us into far less danger than 
those who give us our thirty francs worth.” 

“Perhaps there’s a unity of purpose in life.” 

The artist shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps,” 
he admitted, “but if there is, it’s an infinite purpose, 
and our finite minds can’t grasp it. Only priests and 
old women are sure of it, and can tell you to a nicety 
just what it is. At any rate, you can withdraw from 
watching life, into work for instance, and then when 
you want to be entertained, go out and look it over 
once more.” 

He rose and adjusted a white curtain to reflect the 
light upon his sitter. Then he rattled away cheerily 
while he moistened and stirred the paints upon his 
palette, and the Mayfield knew he was trying to dis- 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


231 


tract her. This ordinarily would have annoyed her, 
but to-day she did not care. She did not care a great 
deal what happened. She was weary of guiding her 
own course and was content to lie passively and toy 
with thoughts which he tossed her as he painted. 

“That’s why the boulevard sidewalk cafe is the 
best theatre,” he was saying. “You only need pay 
twelve sous for admission and they throw in a good 
glass of Bordeaux. You can get up and leave at any 
time, without falling over neighbours or disturbing a 
performance. And what a spectacle will parade 
before you! It’s spring, now, and sunny, and all the 
world is out. 

“Little girls dressed like brides in flowing dresses 
and veils of spotless white, walk with awed and 
dreamy innocence in their eyes on their way to make 
their first communion. Fat women in stuffy mink 
coats, their baggy cheeks pink with rouge and white 
with powder, mince along on tiny shoes that hurt 
their feet, towed by poodle dogs. Officers of the 
army in horizon blue, wearing gay ribbons on their 
breasts and strapped in shiny leather, shorten their 
strides to the pattering feet of their wives, who are 
dressed in inexpensive decency and carry big paper 
bundles from the stores. Old men in rags with 
bushy white beards and massive heads that remind 
you of Homer come along and ask you to buy the 
afternoon paper. A blind man sits on a kerb-stone 
stool and makes his accordion sing La Traviata. 


232 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


Women as beautiful as orchids flash by, and the scent 
of flowers stirs your nostrils. Long, sleek motor 
cars purr past, shining and polished to catch the sun, 
convoyed by droves of panting, wheezing taxis, 
almost ready to fall apart. Gamins in black aprons 
chase each other, jostling the pedestrians, and 
dignified functionaries with red noses and cocked hats 
bustle by, filled with importance and beer. There’s 
a show for you. And if it wearies you, there’s al¬ 
ways the glass at your elbow. I have seen rainbow 
colours through the bottom of a glass of good bock 
when it is tilted toward the clouds.” 

The Mayfield laughed at him. “You will have to 
take me to your theatre some afternoon,” she said, 
“and explain the plot while I listen to the music.” 

“Ah! There’s a dissipation,” he mocked. Then 
he tore the little frame of canvas on which he was 
working from the easel, and tossed it disgustedly over 
toward a pile of others at one side of the room. He 
drew his chair before her and sat in it, imprisoning 
both the woman’s hands. 

“Diane,” he said, and his voice was tender. 
“The goddess of love and beauty whom I started to 
paint some time ago has disappeared. I think she 
has been slain. And in her place is a woman who 
is dear to me,—but only a woman. 1 know only 
what I can see, behind the eyes 1 have been trying 
to paint, but that is enough to tell me you are in 
trouble. Can I help you?” 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


233 

“You are mistaken,—or partly mistaken.” Diane 
replied. She spoke coldly, but her eyes were down¬ 
cast, and she half resisted the pressure of his hands, 
‘'In the first place I never was a goddess. You 
shared that illusion with someone else. I never was 
anything but girl and woman.” 

“Carrying something of the divine,” the artist 
insisted. 

“That which all women carry,” she answered, 
“the capacity of love beyond the power of men to 
understand. But that little spark of divinity does 
not seem to be as valuable as I thought it was. So 
I am forgetting that I ever had it.—Help me? 
Of course you can, and do. That’s why I’m here, 
because I can sleep,—so far as the life beyond the 
studio goes,—while you paint me.” 

She lifted her eyes to meet his squarely. “You 
haven’t room for another lodger here, have you, with 
dear Maman and King Louis?” 

The artist’s hands that clutched hers tightened and 
trembled. He said nothing while he looked away 
to the windows over the city. Then he arose, but 
did not then relinquish his clasp upon her hands. 

Suddenly they found themselves standing together. 
His arms were about her, holding her tightly, and 
both her hands, released, were over his shoulders. 
Her head was thrown back, her lips parted. Her 
body, half relaxed, hung for an instant in his 
embrace, and then, by the arms about his neck was 


2 34 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


drawn up closer and more tightly against him. 
There was a vague singing in her ears, and she felt 
herself on the verge of tears, while through half 
opened white teeth an unspoken lament, quite unlike 
love, was sighing, “I don’t care. Life has not 
played squarely by me.” Half aloud she murmured. 
—"And Henri is sweet.” 

Still the artist’s face was turned from her. His 
mouth was a sharp straight line. 

"Henri,” she breathed, and he turned. 

Their eyes met once more, and penetrated each in 
each. Then their lips met, and clung, and strove 
against each other to drain more,—yet more,—of 
some elusive draught that would cool the madness 
racing through them.—It was the woman who 
awakened first, and trembling sought escape. Her 
hands pushed his face away, and her face was turned 
from him. His arms did not let her go till she cried 
out, "Henri—Henri.” 

She stepped back and covered her eyes with her 
hands. Her cheeks were hot and she could not cool 
them. She walked slowly to the cot, without look¬ 
ing at her companion, piled her fallen hair upon her 
head and pinned it to stay, with fingers that fumbled 
and shook. She donned her hat, still without a word, 
then turned to go. 

The artist was seated in his chair, his head buried 
in his arms, which rested upon its back. Something 
in his attitude of dejection, or perhaps the black lock 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


235 


of hair that stood unruly outward from his scalp, 
perpetually boyish, stirred the woman who watched 
him. She picked up her gloves and hand-bag and 
stepped over by his side. He did not raise his head. 

She placed one hand upon his shoulder, but still 
he did not look up. 

“I'm sorry, Henri,” she said. “That was all my 
fault.” Then she started toward the door. 

“Madame,” he cried, and swinging on her heel 
she saw that he had risen. “Madame, I have lost 
my goddess, but listen.” His voice was racked with 
passion. “You have been hurt and you are pitying 
yourself. Don’t be too careless of others.” 

“1 am a bad woman, Henri, forget me for awhile, 
and then,-” 

The door rattled and opened. Mme. Bezanne 
entered, with packages from a nearby epicerie, and 
saw them standing facing her. 

“Mes enfants ,—But you are not departing, 
Madame, 1 can make tea in a moment.” 

“I’m sorry, maman,” Diane, apologized, smiling 
through flickering, moistened lashes, and stepping 
forward, she kissed the white forehead gently. “But 
I will see you again.” 

“I’m sorry too, but my son will show you to the 
door. These stairs grow steeper and steeper. I am 
afraid every time I think of our friends descending 
them. They are none too light. Why stand there, 
Henri? Surely Madame needs a strong arm to help 


236 THE HEART OF SALOME 

her to the street, and you used to work in the fields 
at Avignon." 

They went down the stairs together, Mrs. May¬ 
field accepting a silent escort's arm until they were 
nearly at street level. 

“Do not call yourself bad, Diane," he said. 
“You are far from that, for as I have learned of 
people more and more through the years I find so few 
who are bad,—or good. Only we grope our way 
through unlit streets many times, and bruise our¬ 
selves and others." 

In the hall on the ground floor a door opened, and 
a woman rushed past them shrieking wildly, followed 
by other women and two men, all running. 

“What in the world is that?" asked the Mayfield, 
as they reached the street door. 

A motor ambulance was at the kerb, and from it 
two rugged, broad-shouldered attendants were draw¬ 
ing a stretcher, bearing a human burden, swathed in 
white. As the stretcher slid from the flooring of its 
transport, the woman who had screamed in the hall¬ 
way flung herself upon it, and again her cries were 
raised, unrepressed in their agony, to gather a crowd 
of the curious. 

The Mayfield pressed forward. “What has hap¬ 
pened?" she asked. 

“Come away," cautioned the artist. “Such things 
are not good to see." 

But Diane had noticed that the woman was the 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


237 


madonna of Henri’s studio, the pretty Italian whose 
baby, nursing at her breast, was to be a Christ Child 
in some Paris church. She clung to the spot as if 
fascinated. Bezanne spoke a few words to one of 
the attendants, and then turned to his companion. 

"It is the man of the house who lives below us. 
You saw his wife and baby the other day. He has 
been working in the Batignolles tunnel, and there 
was an accident there this afternoon. Queer thing, 
too. A stone crusher broke, and a flying fragment 
of rock hit him in the neck. It cut his throat as 
cleanly as if it were a knife. There are a thousand 
ways in which a man may be killed, and the world’s 
industries seems to hold as many of them as its wars.” 

"How horrible!” the Mayfield shivered. 

"It is bad,” he agreed, clasping her arm. "A 
bullet would have been better,—or a shell. I have 
seen some throats cut in my time, but I never could 
get used to it, either by bayonet or trench knife. It’s 
too much like the butcher in the slaughter house. 
Come away and I’ll hail a taxi.” 

The stretcher had been dropped to the sidewalk. 
The attendants’ faces were turned away, but not those 
of the crowd. The woman bereaved of her wage 
earner, and the father of her children, was lying half 
on the sidewalk, and half across the lifeless body, 
holding it in her embrace and weeping noisily. The 
sheet which had covered the man was pulled away 
from his blood-spattered face, a swarthy labourer’s 


238 THE HEART OF SALOME 

face now strangely yellowish white, and the raw gash 
across his neck gaped open to morbid eyes. Two 
agents de police were pushing through the crowd and 
shoving them back, away from the scene of grief. 

The Mayfield turned to go. But she had seen the 
slashed throat, and the white mask of death across 
the man’s face. All at once she sagged against the 
artist’s arm, limply. “I think I am going to faint,” 
she half whispered. Then she shook her head 
vehemently and straightened up with an effort. 
"No, I won’t—I won’t,” she denied. "Show me 
into a taxi quick.” 

She was swaying, reeling, sick with nausea, but 
through her giddiness was running the cool and 
cynical sentence of Sir Humphrey spoken to her but 
a few hours ago over the telephone from his home to 
the lobby of Claridge’s Hotel: 

"Your friend has unfortunately gone into a bad 
country, where are some people called Touaregs who 
specialize in cutting throats.” 

As she collapsed into the tonneau of a taxicab and 
heard the artist giving the driver her address, and 
bidding her an "au revoir” she replied to him 
mechanically. But all her real voice was crying in¬ 
wardly. "They mustn’t do that to Monte.—That’s 
what’s going to happen to Monte. Monte! Monte! 
Monte!” 

And her eyes were gazing upon some lonesome 
barren hill, where lay a lifeless figure with a raw, 


THE HEART OF SALOME 239 

yawning red wound across his white throat, and the 
upturned face was Monte Carroll’s. 

‘They mustn’t do that,” she sobbed. ‘‘Oh Monte! 
Monte! Monte!” 


CHAPTER XIV 


The Mayfield was pacing her apartment like a caged 
tigress, raging at enforced inaction, when the clocks 
of the city's churches were chiming four in the morn¬ 
ing. A hot rage, interspersed with spasms of cold 
fear. 

Even now, while the minutes were crawling so 
slowly across the dial of the hours, Monte Carroll 
might be approaching all too swiftly the fate pre¬ 
pared for him by his sinister foe. For all she knew 
he might be even now lying lifeless in some waste¬ 
land, victim of savages, his body left for prey to 
gathering buzzards, and all his red stream of life that 
had bubbled so strongly within him seeping into the 
sands and drying from the pool about his gashed 
throat. The Mayfield caught at her own ivory, blue- 
veined throat in horror at the vision that recurred 
to her again and again. She could see his patheti¬ 
cally still body so clearly, if she stopped from pacing 
and from planning how she was to reach him, and 
avert him from his peril. 

She had done all she could do before morning, that 

240 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


241 

wan, pale dawning that seemed as if it would never 
arrive. In the first place she had summoned Hubert, 
good old steady, reliable Hubert, to come as fast as 
a motor would carry him to her apartment. There 
she had sobbed to him the story of her love and her 
hate, and of the old intriguing gold gatherer who 
sought to acquire her as the symbol of his wealth and 
power,—all the story, of her early love for Monte 
and her shame,—in a complete break-down of re¬ 
serves,—how she had indeed plotted and planned the 
vilest murder, which now must not happen. It must 
not! It could not! All that she had in the way of 
wealth must be summoned at once to forestall it. 
She must go herself to warn her man and save him. 
She did not hate him. She loved him so much she 
did not care what happened to her, or whether he 
ever returned her anything but the scorn he had 
manifested toward her. He must be safe from harm. 
He must be happy. That was the goal of her life, 
and she would lay down her life if need be to accom¬ 
plish it. And he, Hubert, must help her, for old 
friendship's sake, and for Madge's sake, with whom 
she knew he was really in love desperately, though he 
could not know how terrible and how strong a love 
could be to possess one. Women only knew that, 
and she most of all women. 

Hubert had puffed a veritable screen of blue smoke 
about him from a knobby brier pipe that ordinarily 
he did not bring into human society, but reserved for 


242 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


the unravelling of tangled problems in his rooms. 
Fortunately he had put the pipe in his trousers 
pocket when he doffed his smoking jacket, donned 
his dinner coat and jumped for a taxi at the May- 
field’s frantic phone call. Great old brier! It made 
the brain hit smoothly on all cylinders. By the time 
the sorry story of the stricken woman had given way 
to a final burst of tears he was well on his way to a 
plan of action. 

First of all, Carroll’s home office in New York 
must be cabled. It would know just where the beggar 
had gone. Secondly, he must hop over to a friend of 
his at the Embassy. He would hunt up a military 
attache who could inveigle a plane for him to fly out 
of the aerodrome at Le Bourget, preferably a single- 
seater with a good Lewis gun, and he’d be at Mar¬ 
seilles directly; thence to Algiers, and thence in pur¬ 
suit of the oil man wherever he had gone. The 
French had a sprinkling of military posts all over that 
country and there would be no danger of getting far 
from a supply of gas. He hadn’t flown since the war, 
but he would wager he had not lost his cunning at 
the controls. He had heard of the Touaregs some¬ 
where in North Africa,—wild riders, he understood, 
who loved a fight. They always could be depended 
upon to give the French a skirmish when they were 
in need of training. But ground troops couldn’t 
stand against machine gunning from the air, as he 
blessed well tested for himself on several occasions. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 243 

The Mayfield would not hear of his going alone 
on an errand of that kind. He must get a two-seater. 
She would fly to Monte if it were the last act of her 
life. She would see him safe and then go away some¬ 
where and try to forget him. 

When Hubert swore she was crazy, she admitted 
that perhaps she was, but she intended to go, and 
that was all there was to it. He refused point-blank 
to take her, and she invented out of imagination a 
French captain who would be glad to carry her along 
on such a sporting proposition. She even went to 
the telephone to call up this imaginary airman. 
Hubert changed his peremptory refusal of her wishes 
to an attitude of wheedling, coaxing her not to take 
such a risk. And finally he grumblingly consented, 
quoting an old adage about "needs must when the 
devil drives.” He warned her then that he doubted 
whether he could find a two-seater at Le Bourget, or 
even if the French would let him take any plane at 
all. 

But she laughed to scorn that suggestion. She 
threatened to go along with him to the aerodrome if 
there was any doubt of his success. ‘Til get them 
to lend me a squadron, with a couple of bombers 
thrown in for good measure/' she boasted. "My 
captain Lefevre will get them for me.” 

So Hubert had "popped off' on his errand to the 
Embassy, and to Le Bourget, and to the Bourse to 
send a cable to Carroll's home office, after routing 


244 THE HEART OF SALOME 

a consul-general from his bed to get the cable address 
of the Gulf oil people. 

The Mayfield was left to tramp her rooms, disre¬ 
garding the protests of Lysiane, and her insinuations 
that Madame would show the ravages of a sleepless 
night in the morning. She packed the girl off to her 
room, and continued to tramp, or to drop into a chair 
and bury her face in her arms and try to think, or to 
jump up again and straighten a picture awry on the 
wall that annoyed her nerves. 

What a sad wreck she had made of her life! And 
not only of her own,—for that would not be so bad, 
—but of Monte’s. She was leading him to his death. 
Probably he was only going on this business trip 
into Africa to get away from being near her. Had 
he not said in the taxicab, just before that one long, 
sweet kiss, that he was confronted once more with 
the task of trampling on memories of her? Had he 
not confessed that he was afraid his old longing for 
her would return? She took some sad comfort in 
this, but it was swept away by the agony of her 
anxiety for him. 

She paced the floor, back and forth, crumpling a 
tiny piece of lace and linen in her hands, and cry¬ 
ing “Monte—Monte— They must not hurt you, 
dear,” by the voice of her heart, when her lips were 
closed tightly and trembling to keep a brave straight 
line. 

She could not spend a whole night in this fashion, 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


245 

and she could not sleep. Would the dawn never 
come? She tried recalling old scenes wherein they 
two had played together, and all the little triumphs 
of her youth in the growing realization that the big 
boy loved her, mutely and awkwardly at first, and 
later flamingly passionate, so that she could make 
him miserable or happy as she pleased, so that he 
would trot to her heel like a faithful hound for awhile, 
then withdraw from all men and women and sulk 
and contemplate deeds of reckless dare-devilry that 
should make her sorry for the way she treated him. 

She conjured up pictures of him to cross her eyes: 
Monte diving from the high pier at Marblehead, 
straight out into space like a gliding bird, then turn¬ 
ing in mid-air and straightening again to drop like 
a plummet, cleaving the clean and shining waters 
with scarcely a ripple, and emerging with a whoop of 
joy to await her as she launched her own pulsing, 
glowing body into the air to dive in a proud and 
perfect arc into the ocean beside him. 

There was Monte at the tiller of her knockabout 
sloop, driving it with the lee rail a-wash and the wind 
threatening to pull the mast from its socket, carrying 
too much sail because it was more happily dangerous 
so, while she lay along the windward rail and helped 
to ballast the craft against capsizing. 

What clean and healthy summers in New Eng¬ 
land! Her sophisticated friends at Deauville or the 
Riviera would laugh at the thrills of toasting 


246 THE HEART OF SALOME 

"wieners’' over a drift-wood fire on some beach at 
the end of a straw-ride. They would prefer to give 
their jaded appetites a fillip with the marvellous 
creations of some Latin chef, while they thrilled over 
the chances of the baccarat or chemin-de-fer tables. 
They would have orchestras playing music which 
had stood the test of destroying years and still was 
beautiful. But the "wiener” toasters on the beaches 
at home were singing for themselves, making their 
own music, rag-time doggerel ditties, born only a 
month ago to pass into unregretted oblivion a month 
hence, but in their brief lives to give young lovers a 
catchy and hilarious tune to blend in sporano and 
bass, with perhaps a couple of tenors off-key, and a 
ukulele to strum out basic chords that would do as 
well for one song as another. 

As Diane strode her apartment she longed to bring 
those scenes back in reality as she was doing in 
memory. But even as she longed for them came the 
bitter conviction and certain knowledge that she had 
grown into other habits, and that those "silly” 
gatherings would bore her to exasperation. 

She was now the Mayfield, the noted beauty of 
Paris, pampered and sensuous, so that she partook 
of life like a connoisseur gaining more exquisite 
pleasures by her knowledge, but shuddering at the 
enthusiastic satisfactions of youth. And she real¬ 
ized that she paid the penalties that critics have to 
pay for their over-refinement of taste. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


247 

It would be only for to-night, when she yearned 
for the man who had gone into peril, that the rewards 
and penalties of civilization escaped her. For to¬ 
night she was stripped of her refinements. She 
was primitive and savage. The man whom she had 
always meant for her mate, the man whom she loved, 
was in danger. All forgetful of self she would fight 
to save him. 

She stood on the Bokharan rug of her bedroom. 
Before her was the “prie-dieu,” stolen from an 
ancient rural sanctuary to be sold as satisfaction for 
the possessive instincts of a wealthy curio collector. 
There was the low stool, and rail for the knees and 
elbows of worshippers, and there, hung upon His 
cross, was the piteous figure of the Son of God, an 
oaken, painted image, rudely but lovingly wrought. 
His agonized face was thrown back toward heaven; 
His nail-pierced hands and feet were discoloured 
with dark-red splashes. 

Something as instinctive moved in the woman, 
afraid, and fighting for self control, as moved within 
the first pagan who ever fell to his knees before a 
great rock of curious shape. 

She was in the grip of fear. She was in need of 
help. Surely somewhere off in the great empyrean 
spaces lived a great Power to whom the troubles of 
puny men were trifles easily lifted when too great for 
them to bear. And this great Power was good, and 


248 THE HEART OF SALOME 

loved men so much—that he gave ‘'His only be¬ 
gotten Son, that whosoever believeth-” 

Echoes of words that had been heard and forgot¬ 
ten, years ago, words drilled rigorously into her brain 
when it was plastic and half-formed, when she walked 
every Sunday to church, all starched and crinkly as 
to clothes, all awkward legs and arms as to form, 
washed till her face shone with high lights in the sun 
like a rosy apple, with her thick hair braided meticu¬ 
lously down her spine and be-ribboned at the waist 
with an enormous bow—words laid down in indis¬ 
putable authority by omniscient elders, and a parson 
formidable in his high white collar and his wrath 
towards unbelievers—these were the words and 
thoughts that coursed through the mind and heart of 
the Mayfield in her anguish. 

She dropped on her knees before the extended 
figure of the Christ, hanging there before her as the 
symbol of a divine Love which had taken upon Itself 
the sorrows of mankind to bear and endure. 

“Dear God!” she sobbed. “Save Monte,— Dear 
God, save Monte!” 

Four little words repeated again and again, to 
comfort herself, while the tears coursed unchecked 
down her cheeks and she gazed through their mist at 
the cross. Even as she murmured the words of her 
prayer, and clung to them as to a black-magic for¬ 
mula for healing her woes, and told them to the cruci¬ 
fix as often as ever nun told bead after bead of her 



THE HEART OF SALOME 249 

rosary, she felt a spirit of calm hovering over her. 
She was at least doing something now to save him. 
She was praying. That was better than the absolute, 
maddening inaction which she had suffered through 
the night. 

But as the burst of passion which had brought her 
to its knees spent its force, and no sign came from 
the carved oaken image that her words were heard, 
and no voice from beyond that image answered the 
cry in her heart, the words that formed upon her 
trembling lips became less and less fervent, less of a 
prayer than a clever formula for self-hypnosis into an 
elusive peace, and finally not even that. A mere 
empty mockery, signifying nothing. She had prayed 
unanswered, even as she might have expected, she 
reproached herself. She had been broken a little by 
the strain under which she had been while waiting 
for news from Hubert, and had slipped back into her 
childhood. Even as the thought flashed through her, 
another childhood memory came to cap it. “Unless 
ye become as little children, ye shall not enter the 
Kingdom of Heaven/' 

Well, she did not care particularly about entering 
the Kingdom of Heaven. All she cared about was 
Monte, a flesh and blood man on this earth. It 
would be time enough to consider heaven when she 
was in her dotage and liable to exchange this world 
for another one. 

All that she cared about was Monte, and it was 


250 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


unlikely that heaven would intervene in his behalf 
when the upraised dagger of a Touareg assassin was 
poised above his throat and ready to strike. How 
many mothers and wives and sweethearts had prayed 
for such intervention during the great war? For the 
deflection of missiles scientifically and accurately 
launched straight at their men-folk to annihilate 
them? And how many of the men had been saved 
from death because of those saintly prayers? Few, 
she would wager, wiping her eyes. Whatever might 
be the infinite plan of God directing His world, it did 
not take into account the personal, physical fortunes 
or lives of individuals,—they were too pettily small 
in the great scheme of things, too momentary in the 
vast sweeps of time stretching onward into infinity 
and backward toward the creation of things, more 
centuries than one generation of men could reckon. 

If Monte was to be helped, she and Hubert would 
have to do it, quite humanly and without divine 
assistance. She rose slowly and wearily from her 
knees, bitter and disappointed. 

Grey daylight was piercing the cracks in her 
heavily shuttered windows, and the twittering of birds 
was beginning to herald the dawn out-doors. She 
threw the shutters wide open and leaned out to inhale 
the dewy coolness of her garden. Its shrubs and 
lawn were freshly wet and breathing fragrance. Each 
tree was alive with feathered songsters. She stood 
there drinking the morning air in great inspiring, 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


251 

heartening draughts. Too pretty a world for grief 
to be its outcome! Hubert would be here soon, and 
they would fly together in pursuit of the man who 
was fleeing from her love to an unknown danger. 

They would save him, surely. It could not be too 
late, and then,—ah, then perhaps he would love her. 
He had scores enough against her. Perhaps she 
could wipe them out at one stroke, and force his 
arms once more to encircle her. She would slip into 
their embrace like a homing bird into its nest. 

Meanwhile she must get out her tweed knickers for 
the trip into the desert, and a leather fleece-lined 
great-coat for the ride by air, and pack a little satchel 
full of necessaries, and consult her bank statement. 
She prepared to descend on the cashier for every last 
sou, to be strapped in a money belt about her waist. 

Making these preparations, and refreshing herself 
from the ravages of a sleepless night served to pass 
the time till Lysiane awoke, and hastened to join her 
mistress, whom she heard most strangely bustling 
about. The girl was ordered to the kitchen. By the 
time the Hon. Hubert arrived with a long, urgent 
ring at the door-bell there was a steaming hot 
“American” breakfast ready to be laid for two. 

Hubert was so excited that he had forgotten his 
stick. Otherwise he seemed his normal, matter-of- 
fact self. “Can’t possibly get a return cable here 
from the States before noon,” he told her. “Have 


252 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


to allow for the five hours difference in New York 
and Paris time. Meanwhile I’ve enlisted all kinds 
of johnnies to help me, without telling them enough 
to worry them or us. Called Madge on the phone, 
but she didn’t know where her precious brother had 
gone. Going to call on her when 1 get back, 
though.” 

“That's fine, Hubert,—and in the interim a little 
breakfast?” 

“Wouldn’t be bad. Neither would a nap, but I've 
an appointment with a chap who was liaison officer 
with us from the French army in '17 to go out to Le 
Bourget and try my hand at the joy-stick of a sweet 
little Farman plane. And if he can’t get it for me for 
a few days, we’ve arranged to pick up an old two- 
seated Handley-Page. This chap is an ordnance 
man now, in the piping times of peace, and he'll 
have a Vickers gun mounted on it before noon, if we 
can’t get the Farman. That’s a simpler trick to 
work. Simply point the plane and let fly with every¬ 
thing in your gun straight through the propeller. 
With the Vickers mounted on a swivel at your side 
it’s a little harder,—got to fly and aim separately,— 
but I've not forgotten how. Great lark, it ought to 
be, so buck up. We don't go out flying on little 
wars of our own every day in the year.” 

He entertained her, obviously delighted with his 
prospect of taking to the air once more, while Lysiane 
brought in a trayful of eatables, fruit and American 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


253 

cereal, toast and coffee, steaming under its snowy 
covering. 

'‘A little bit all right,” he commented. “I've 
rushed all over Paris and put away just enough 
whiskies to give me the appetite of a horse.” 

"There are ham and eggs coming later.” 

"Ripping!” He ate with a will. 

The terrors of the night faded with the sun of a 
gorgeous day, and with the companionship of two 
people bent on common adventure. Hubert waxed 
technical over planes and things aeronautical, and 
Diane gave him pseudo-attention just as if she 
understood what he was talking about, while her 
mind, relaxed, was free to envisage the coming 
flight, and a meeting with her man, grown contrite 
and suppliant. 

By the time Hubert was ready to leave for Le 
Bourget she had recovered her self-possession, save 
for occasional qualms lest they be late in their pur¬ 
suit. 

She sped him off with a command to telephone her 
just as quickly as his man gave him word that the 
cable from America had arrived. That would be 
after eleven, and meanwhile she would go down 
town and get some money. He could take her 
satchel. Would it be cold during the nights where 
they were going? She showed him her knicker suit, 
and her great-coat, and he rendered masculine ap¬ 
proval. Then he was gone. 


254 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


Alone once more she had to fight hard a few 
minutes to keep from giving way to her fears for 
Monte. But by repeating her belief that she would 
save him, and that he would love her, she stilled her 
trepidation until her motor sounded its horn at the 
porte-cochere. 

Then she rode down town to Papa Coudikis to 
obtain a great roll of thousand franc notes. “You 
must be going to buy the Luxembourg/’ was his 
comment, “or do you fear for the safety of our 
vaults?” 

“I’m going on a little trip,” she told him, “and 
I have been economical all my life. If I want any¬ 
thing extravagant I’m going to get it.” 

“All right, princess,” he laughed indulgently. 
“I suppose you can always get more, but keep away 
from roulette. And remember that handsome men 
are sometimes wolves in disguise.” 

“Ah, but we know where I can find a protector, 
do we not?” She smiled her way out, while he 
chuckled after her. “The minx.” 

Thence home again, to receive a message from 
Hubert. 

“Come to the aerodrome at once.” 

Her heart turned a somersault. She did not stop 
to dress. Clutching her tweed suit, wool stockings, 
sport shoes and blouse in her arms, she ran down¬ 
stairs to her chauffeur, and hurled the clothes into the 
tonneau before her. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


255 

“With all speed,” she ordered, giving the man 
her destination. She climbed into the car and drew 
its curtains shut. The car rolled out of the gravel 
drive, picked up speed, and hummed for the city's 
outer gates, while Mrs. Mayfield ripped at her morn¬ 
ing dress with absolute disregard whether she left it 
in anything but shreds. She had changed to her fly¬ 
ing costume before reaching Le Bourget. 

Hubert was standing by a blue-clad, rifle-bearing 
sentinel at the gate of the military field, and beside 
him stood a smart French officer, whom he intro¬ 
duced as an old friend in the war. 

“We got a radio through the American Em¬ 
bassy,” he told her. “Carroll has gone with a party 
of geologists and surveyors to El-Bekdar, a thousand 
miles into the desert. It’s rocky, hilly country, and 
there’s a report that there's oil there. Beats the devil 
how they’d get it out even if they found it. A thou¬ 
sand miles of pipe line to guard and keep in repair 
across that country. But where there's wealth enough 
to be brought out there’s money enough to bring it. 
It must be across into Spanish territory they’re head¬ 
ing, because every French concession would go to Sir 
Humphrey. But we ought to be able to catch them 
before they enter the desert. They only left Algiers 
a week ago, and it should take them about a week to 
pick up a camel train and supplies once they get to 
El-Bekdar. That’s two days more. And we can 
get there in a day and a half if we’re lucky.” 


256 THE HEART OF SALOME 

They were striding swiftly across the field toward 
the hangars, the woman between her two escorts. 
Hubert assured her that their companion knew 
enough to keep a secret. 

"He has sent a wire to the French military post 
at El-Bekdar to detain Carroll if he hasn't started 
into the sand," he said. 

Before one of the open sheds a great Farman bi¬ 
plane was standing like a grotesque bird. Its motor 
had been running, but was shut off as they 
approached. An oily, overalled "non-com." hopped 
out of its cockpit as they came up. He saluted his 
superior and informed him that the engine was purr¬ 
ing smoothly. 

With a few words of thanks and farewell, Hubert 
and the girl shook hands with the French officer, and 
climbed into their seats. The Briton adjusted the 
Mayfield's straps, and made her comfortable. His 
war-time friend had climbed on the fuselage and was 
giving him final instructions about the plane and its 
charts. 

“Thanks awfully," yelled the Briton as he started 
the motor with a roar.' The propeller before them be¬ 
gan to whir. 

“Bonne chance," cried his friend, and jumped to 
earth. A moment later with a snort and a burst of 
smoke the plane lurched off. There was a short run 
over the field, and then Diane felt the earth drop 
away from beneath her. 


CHAPTER XV 

The earth travelled fast away from them. Its for¬ 
midable men turned to ridiculous pigmies, and then 
to ant-like specks, and vanished. The houses be¬ 
came like children’s toys and tall trees like tufts of 
heavier grass upon an uneven turf; the farms of the 
sturdy French peasants were tiny rectangles of green 
and brown; and the Seine extended to their view like 
a serpent of silver wriggling down country toward 
Rouen and the sea. 

They left the river behind them and headed south, 
climbing higher, so that the world was no longer of 
enough consequence to bother watching it, and they 
hung suspended, seemingly motionless in empty 
space. Only the uneven air in which their plane was 
lifted and dropped like a boat on a choppy sea served 
to tell the Mayfield that they were moving. But 
leaning a little from the shelter of the cockpit the rush 
of the wind informed her they were travelling fast. 

Diane was warm in her coat of leather, and she had 
passed a sleepless night. The sensation of flying was 
not new to her, and she was happy because she was 
257 


258 THE HEART OF SALOME 

on her way to Monte. She had implicit confidence 
in Hubert, whose broad back turned every now and 
then for a delighted grin to be cast over his shoulder. 
He communicated an obvious pleasure at returning to 
an old game which now was sport, even if once it 
had been war. As the world faded into nothingness 
she yawned with sleep, fought against it only half¬ 
heartedly, and soon was nodding in the midst of 
pleasant dreams. 

Smiles wreathed her lips. She was sure she was 
jogging along in an old farm buggy just north of 
Boston, between the apple orchards of Carrollton. 
It was a sunny Spring day. All the trees were pink 
and white, and Monte was driving the sleepy nag 
that alternated between drawing a plough and amus¬ 
ing children out at the old Carroll farm. He was 
explaining to her a wonderful new method of catch¬ 
ing snakes, with two sticks, one forked and the other 
carrying a noose of string to slip around their tails. 
And while she shivered a little she told him she was 
not afraid, and he retorted, “Aw, I’ll betchy-are. 
But I’m not afraid of snakes. I like ’em. I’m going 
to India to hunt boa constrictors as soon as 1 get 
enough money in the bank.’’ And then they specu¬ 
lated together on how far it was to “India’s coral 
strand,” and Monte agreed to take her if Mrs. Bar¬ 
rett would let her go. 

The Mayfield could see her mother setting a freshly 
baked pie upon the kitchen window sill, out under 


THE HEART OF SALOME 259 

the morning-glory and wisteria vines that climbed 
over their back "stoop.” And even as she watched 
it, and her mouth watered for its crisp, warm, flaky 
crust, and for the oozing syrup that lapped each 
cinnamon tinctured crescent of baked apple within, a 
grimy hand crept over the window ledge and the pie 
disappeared. She was running down the gravel path 
toward the back gate and crying midst tears of rage 
toward a small boy who ran like a deer, "Monte 
Carroll, you bring that back, I saw you and I'll tell 
your father/' 

She awoke at that, and struggled for a moment of 
panic against the confinement of the straps that held 
her. The bulkiness of her wrappings was strange 
for one waking from a dream. She should be turning 
and stretching beneath the downy comfort of her 
quilt. And then, wide awake, she recalled where she 
was. She leaned out and gulped a stiff drink of the 
rushing breeze, and wondered how far they had gone. 

The earth had completely vanished and they were 
plunging through blue space shot with gold sun¬ 
beams. Underneath them was a rolling grey mist. 
Hubert’s broad back was impassive, motionless, and 
he was facing straight through the propellers. She 
leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. 
He turned about and laughed. 

"Had a good nap?” he shouted. 

She nodded smilingly. "Have we gone far?” 

Hubert looked at his wrist watch. "Due south by 


26 o 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


the compass/' he said. “Two hours. I'm going to 
drop pretty soon and we'll see where we are. We 
ought to be over Lyons, or near there, another two 
hours to Marseilles/' 

The Mayfield automatically checked his statement 
by her watch. Just a little past noon, and they had 
left Le Bourget at ten o’clock. She relapsed into 
thought. Flying was almost as monotonous as riding 
long distances through barren country upon a train. 

She was going to save Monte, and travelling fast 
to bridge the gap between them. What if it should 
not be fast enough? She shook the thought away 
impatiently. It must be. Surely no such disaster 
would befall her as Monte’s death. 

And she was going to try once more to win his 
love. Once in the desert by his side, he could not 
escape her so easily. She would be infinitely more 
lovely in the barrenness of the surroundings. The 
skies of the tropics would be above them. And he 
could not resist her. 

What was the strength of his eight-year-old bitter¬ 
ness against the pulsing presence of her day by day 
and night by night, close to his side, appealing and 
tender, elusive and gay, sparkling a little to dazzle 
him, and a confidential comrade in the midst of alien 
natives, treacherous sands, burning heat? She won¬ 
dered if after saving him, she would have still further 
opportunities to help him. That led her into specula¬ 
tion as to what she could do for him as help-mate, 


261 


THE HEART OF SALOME 

when once they were married, and she was spurring 
him onward in his chosen career, comforting him at 
temporary defeats, and giving him all her feminine 
intuitions for counsel. 

Somehow she did not want him to be too easily 
successful. She wanted the chance to pillow his 
blue-black curly hair upon her shoulder, and stroke 
the worries from his forehead, and intersperse en¬ 
couragements with kisses that should express her 
absolute worship and confidence. And she wanted 
him to go back to America. There he would carve 
out such a place for himself that women would envy 
her. They would whisper in hotels and theatres, on 
the streets and in fashionable assemblies, “That's 
Mrs. Montgomery Carroll. Isn't she stunning? 
My dear, he makes just loads of money. They say 
he's the real brains of the Gulf Oil. Just look at 
those furs! He's crazy about her." 

The roar of the motor suddenly was stilled, and 
Diane felt herself thrown hard against the strap 
which held her to her seat. They were diving, nose 
down, through a cloud that drenched them in its dark 
mist. Emerging from it, with the bright world in 
clear view beneath them, they straightened out and 
sped forward. The motor once again hummed 
powerfully and smoothly. 

Beneath them were the broad, peaceful waters of 
the Rhone, slipping with imperceptible motion to 
join the deep Mediterranean. Rolling hills of fertile 


262 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


farm land lay beneath them, dotted with hamlets 
roofed in pink, blue, grey, and brown, a gay country, 
brave with colour. Far to the east rose the white 
crags of the Alps, and as they dropped lower and 
lower they could see a great palace, its pinnacles 
tipped with fire where the sun played upon its win¬ 
dows, and Hubert shouted that they were passing 
Avignon, ancient home of the popes. 

A glorious day,—and they were flying above the 
earth like super-men, their mighty engine singing its 
song of power in their ears,—a power that leaped over 
continents and annihilated space,—and they were its 
masters, only a little less than gods. The Mayfield 
felt stirred to sing at the wonder of it, and Hubert 
smiled back at her in understanding appreciation of 
all she felt. 


“Sur le pont d'Avignon, 

L’on y danse, l’on y danse,” 

What poems the old troubadours would have sung 
to their ladies if instead of dancing across the bridge 
they had flown over it, a mile in the air! If only 
Hubert were Monte, and they two there flying to¬ 
gether in a perfection of sympathy that made speech 
unnecessary, watching the beautiful, miraculous 
world which had lived all these centuries with the one 
aim and goal of bringing their two hearts together! 

A long flight to Marseilles, four hours, passed in 
contentment. Diane was too wrapped in sensation 


THE HEART OF SALOME 263 

to think of the chances of evil still waiting them, once 
they had reached the desert. Four hours in which to 
doze and dream, and wake to sing, or to stretch her 
arms to the sun, and revel in the charm of the pas¬ 
toral country they were spanning. 

Now they were a scant thousand feet above the 
ground, and off to the south they could see the haze 
of smoke above a great city, and then a deeper blue 
than even the sky. Or was it just a mirage? More 
minutes passed, and she was sure that the blue was 
really sea, the Mediterranean. It would not be long 
before she would be seeing it dotted with the bright 
orange and dull brown triangular lateen sails of the 
fishing craft, that bobbed upon its inshore waters. 
She would be watching some stately steamer plough¬ 
ing its way through a wreath of white foam at its bow, 
headed for the open ocean and distant lands, and 
leaving behind it a long trail of fleecy black smoke, 
to be dissipated and vanish in lacy wisps of dull steel 
grey against the sky. The chimneys of the city be¬ 
gan to appear like tiny black stalks with tufts of blue- 
black foliage. And then a thousand roofs, with odd 
chimney pots and gables, emerged from the dimness 
of distance and took their shape before her eyes, 
and on a distant hill-top was a great cathedral. 

The city was set upon a hill, and crowning the hill 
was a great open field, toward which they glided. 
Upon its borders they finally saw the expected 
hangars, and then in front of them, running about 


264 THE HEART OF SALOME 

excitedly, little brown-clad men, who turned out to be 
mechanics of the French air force. With motor cut 
off, they swooped down near them. Their plane 
taxied in a series of bumps and pitches across the 
field. 

Hubert was unstrapping himself, and turning to¬ 
ward her. “Like it as far as you’ve gone?” 

“Wild about it. Let’s keep right on.” 

“We will after we get a bite to eat and give the 
engine its meal. I think we’ve time before night to 
hop to Algiers,—a great trick, and a wonderful en¬ 
gine,—smooth as silk.” 

He helped her out of her harness, and handed a 
note of introduction to a dapper little officer with 
bristling mustachioes and shiny glasses. The officer 
read the note and greeted them cordially. But he was 
amazed at their plan to keep straight on across the 
Mediterranean without escort. Certainly the army 
fliers did it frequently, on business, and testing their 
craft, but millionaire sportsmen never. Why risk it? 

They laughed him down, and Hubert with pardon¬ 
able “swank” showed him his honourable discharge 
from the British flying forces, with his citations 
written thereon. Then they found mutual acquaint¬ 
ances in the great war adventure, that now was slip¬ 
ping so far to rearward that it seemed sometimes 
like ancient history. And they talked motors to 
each other with great mutual respect. 

It was after two o’clock. They accepted the 


THE HEART OF SALOME 265 

officer’s invitation to luncheon, and spent an hour 
with him, while the mechanicians prepared their plane 
anew for flight. The officer whisked them in a mili¬ 
tary automobile to a plaza over-looking the town and 
ocean, where they ate under green palm trees. They 
quenched their thirst with a rose-coloured wine that 
left them all uplifted in spirit and great friends. The 
officer was assured that they would return some time 
to his city perhaps to play a little lawn tennis or 
'‘vingt-et-un,” and certainly to have another 
luncheon upon the same spot, with the sparkling sea 
at their feet, and out in the harbour the grim stone 
fortress whence Monte Cristo dived to freedom. 

Back to the aerodrome they sped. Diane and 
Hubert mounted their charger of the sky. The officer 
bade them farewell and good luck, and gave Hubert 
careful instructions about the landing field toward 
which he was headed. Then away the adventurers 
flew, smoke and fire belching from the plane’s ex¬ 
haust. They took the air with a swift upward rush 
and a tricky “figure eight” by Hubert, who was 
“feeling his oats” at being back at the controls of 
a plane. They headed out across an expanse of water 
turned purple and gold in the afternoon light. 

Four hours more of flight they spent, across the 
open sea, their motor throbbing steadily, and so high 
that they had not even a sea-gull for company. 
When they approached the African coast, the night 


266 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


was falling. The flaming colours of a tropical sun¬ 
down were fading into darkness. But rising upward 
to their lonely height the twinkling stars of the coast¬ 
wise lights were flashing them friendly messages of 
welcome once more to the habitation of men. 

From Marseilles their military mentor had radioed 
news that they were on their way. A huge beacon- 
fire had been lit on the flying field, to guide them. 
Hubert “pan-caked” down beside it weary and ready 
for sleep. His companion was sparklingly gay with 
excitement. 

“Oh Hubert, it was wonderful,” she cried, as he 
fumbled with her straps. 

But after the strenuous exertions of the day, 
Hubert could not enter into her enthusiastic praises. 

“You, poor dear, you’re dead. But I could fly 
right on into the night. Look at the moon. Do 
you suppose we could hit it? It makes me all full 
of music inside.” 

“Fd rather be full of food and tucked into bed,” 
he commented, lifting her to the edge of the cockpit. 
They climbed down into a circle of soldiers. Again 
they gave their credentials, and were extended a wel¬ 
come. A group of khaki-clad colonial officers pressed 
to hear details of the flight. Finally Hubert suc¬ 
ceeded in satisfying their curiosity sufficiently so that 
one of them offered his car to take them to a hotel. 
In its glaring lobby, where the western world was 
listening to western music, and playing in smart 


THE HEART OF SALOME 267 

evening clothes on the border of an Oriental desert, 
they parted for the night. The Mayfield was torn 
between an excited desire to join the gaiety, and the 
fatigue of the journey which commanded her to 
retire. 

Her room could have been no better even in Paris, 
so modern had the foreign quarter of Algiers become 
under the management of the French, striving to re¬ 
coup part of their war losses by playing host to 
American and English tourists. Between fresh sheets 
on a luxurious bed, with windows thrown wide to the 
desert coolness, the Mayfield stretched and yawned, 
comfortable as a cat on a hearthrug. 

How surprised Monte would be to see her! What 
queer tricks life played on people! They had little 
dreamed, back in the days of skating together on the 
Charles, or going to dressed-up parties, or motoring 
out over the North Shore roads, that some day Monte 
would be riding camel-back into an ambuscade of 
death on the far distant Sahara, and that she would 
be speeding to his rescue by aeroplane. Why, it 
seemed only a few days ago that they had gone to¬ 
gether to a swampy field at Squantum, and seen that 
pioneer of British airmen, Grahame-White, astound 
the natives by flying five hundred feet in the air, sit¬ 
ting out in front of a rickety, engine-bearing, kite¬ 
like contraption, with two little propellers revolving 
back of him for all the world like a couple of electric 
fans. How the world moved! The Mayfield's 


268 THE HEART OF SALOME 


breathing was more and more regular and deep. She 
slept soundly and heavily, without a motion nor a 
dream, till the hot sun of a new day poured into her 
window. 

From Algiers to El-Bekdar was five hundred miles 
as crows and men fly. Under a flaming sun, their 
heads protected by pith helmets, and their eyes by 
dark glasses, Diane and Hubert droned it off in their 
plane in about five hours. And at El-Bekdar they 
obtained word of the man they sought. 

He had gathered a camel train during the past 
week, and two days before had plunged into the 
desert with two white companions, and a troop of 
fifty native servants, for an unknown destination. A 
quiet, strange man was Mr. Starret. But masterful, 
and wise to the ways of the desert. In picking his 
camel train, he had unfailingly distinguished between 
the scoundrels who would have robbed him, and a 
faithful sheik on whom the French relied for loyalty. 
His train was equipped with provisions for a month, 
and was well armed. So although they had been 
puzzled by his reticence about whither he was going, 
they had helped him as much as they could at the 
military post. They had noted that his papers were 
in order, and had wished him bonne chance on his 
errand. 

He had gone east toward the Spanish territory, 
through hilly country known for its sheep herds, and 
fairly well supplied with springs. He would skirt 


THE HEART OF SALOME 269 

the great sand waste for a day if he was headed for 
Marouf, the nearest Spanish military post. Thence 
he would have only one peril in his path, the com¬ 
mon one of the desert, roving marauders. And he 
was armed well enough to cope with them unless 
they were in unusual force. 

El-Bekdar was a sun-parched hamlet of pink and 
white stucco houses, flat-roofed and devoid of win¬ 
dow panes, enclosing a stockaded fort in which the 
French had a garrison of one company of Moroccans 
under white officers and a squadron of airmen. It 
was the farthest military outpost in the desert. 

The officers were cordial to the Mayfield and 
Hubert as only lonesome Europeans marooned in an 
eastern native wilderness can be. They made the 
two visitors a gay company at mess. The officers 
were pleasantly curious about their trip, and anxious 
to be of assistance. They advised against pushing on 
in the plane, once they learned it was their plan to 
join Starrett, as the country was rugged and land¬ 
ings might be difficult. Beyond a day’s flight they 
would have to abandon their ship for lack of gas. 
But when the pursuers expressed their determination 
to be on their way after the shortest of rests, and 
their hosts perceived that there was a mysterious 
urgence about their errand, they laughingly gave 
them what advice they could, and swore only be¬ 
neath their breaths that they were foolhardy. 

Questioned as to the matter of marauders the 




270 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


soldiers scoffed at first, but on being pressed for 
details of Touareg raids, admitted they were fairly 
frequent against small bodies of travellers daring the 
expanse to Timbuctoo and points south. 

The Touaregs would not be so bad, they were in¬ 
formed, if they were not in many cases headed by 
renegade deserters from the foreign legion, skilled in 
the art of warfare. These leaders were mostly Ger¬ 
mans, officers of the old Kaiserist army, who had 
clung to their trade after the armistice, and enlisted 
in some numbers under the banners of their erst¬ 
while foes, the French, for service in the tropics. 

Those who had been unable to stand the drop in 
prestige from junker officer-dom to the humble ranks 
frequently had deserted their units. They had stolen 
munitions and supplies in several large groups. They 
had penetrated the desert, and in some cases had 
achieved a little of their old arrogant leadership, by 
gathering under their standard small bands of native 
cut-throats. They lived in the tent caravans of the 
waste-land after the manner of Oriental potentates. 
Some said they had the backing of European money, 
and were in communication with several of Europe’s 
chancellories. 

The Mayfield had heard enough to make her chafe 
at every minute’s delay in getting on with the journey. 
These renegades were indeed backed from Europe, 
she was sure. They were in communication with at 
least one unscrupulous man of power. Sir Humphrey 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


271 


would not have been so certain of Carroll's impending 
doom if he had not laid the plot that would bring it 
about. Even now, sitting amidst these supposed 
friends, they might be conversing with some spy of 
Humphrey's. All their doings would be reported to 
his office off the Champs Elysees as fast as his mar¬ 
vellous underground communications system could 
carry code messages. There was a wireless in the 
post. She would be willing to wager that Sir 
Humphrey knew about her trip and envisaged her 
object, before she was well out of the stockade. 

“Can't we start," Diane whispered to Hubert, 
tensely, in the midst of the chatter. He pressed her 
arm with a sympathetic smile, and started to wonder 
audibly as to the progress of the mechanics with his 
plane. Striding back towards the hangars he en¬ 
couraged her. 

“We’ll catch him before night," he said. “Two 
days' marching won't carry him as far as we'll go in 
an hour or so. We’ll just circle low until we find 
him. Then it's up to you." 

They zoomed over the flat roofs of the village with 
a wave of farewell to the military, and to the white 
burnous-clad natives in the streets and on the house¬ 
tops. They headed East into the open country, 
hugging the earth within a few hundred feet, and the 
Mayfield unslung her field glasses to bring each rocky 
ravine and shrub-clad slope into clear view. 

They passed the bad land, over parched brown 


272 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


grass which lay for miles near the green palms and 
greener lawns of the oasis which had determined the 
site of the village. Then they headed out across the 
seemingly limitless sea of hot white sand, which 
rolled and billowed in hills and valleys, monotonously 
onward to the distant sky-line. After two hours of 
travel, Hubert swung his plane south in a wide 
circle. 

“They can’t have gone this far,” he shouted. 
“We’ll circle back to the village from the south and 
then try by the north if we haven’t found them.” 

But they discovered them on the return flight. 
From afar off they saw such a concourse of men, and 
such a commotion, as made the Mayfield’s heart sud¬ 
denly catch in her throat, and a wild excitement 
possess her. 

“Hurry—hurry-” she whispered to the plane, 

and to Hubert she shouted, “Look—look—there 
they are!” 

But Hubert was already using one free hand to 
slip a belt of cartridges into the breech-block of the 
wicked black gun which was trained straight over the 
front of his cockpit. 

As they swooped nearer and nearer the assemblage 
on the desert, the Mayfield saw clearly the struggle 
which was taking place on its lonely expanse. 

Upon a slight rise of ground was a circle of camels, 
lying prone and still. The packs upon their backs 
formed a rude breastwork back of which a group of 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


273 


men were lying, their rifles trained outward, and 
shooting at a company of wild desert tribesmen. 
The natives were mounted on horses that ran in swift 
charges almost up to the besieged force, only to 
break and flee, then return once more to combat. 
Diane could hear no sound as yet of the firing. But 
she could see the battle as a picture, white smoke and 
flashes of flame from the guns, and the veering, sway¬ 
ing white phantom-like riders, roving in wide circles 
and swift dashes about their hemmed-in prey. 

As the fliers came nearer they could see that the 
attacking force was not escaping scatheless. Here 
and there a riderless horse stood still, and a body lay 
quiet in the sand. The plane was almost on the 
scene of battle. The tribesmen had seen it. Stray 
horsemen were gathered in excited groups, gesticu¬ 
lating wildly, then dashing away. 

“Let 'em have it,” yelled Hubert. His erstwhile 
calm was shattered. He was whooping like a 
Comanche. 

The Mayfield’s ears caught the deadly rattle of his 
machine gun’s voice as it spoke above the roar of the 
engine. No sooner had it opened fire than the at¬ 
tacking force broke into scattering units. They fled, 
then turned to resist. Their rifles were aimed against 
the plane, so that bullets hummed little spiteful songs 
about the Mayfield’s ears. 

Hubert swung to within scant yards of earth, rush¬ 
ing to attack small groups, and then pursuing fugi- 


274 THE HEART OF SALOME 

tives. His weapon took deadly effect. Marauders 
pitched headlong in death from their horses. Then 
all the Touaregs fled. They melted into the desert, 
in scattering, lonely black and white specks that 
merged into the protective white of their native 
element, hopelessly routed and decimated. Hubert 
swung his plane back to the group of camels and the 
defenders upon the hill. He dropped his plane into 
the sand, and with its wheels clogged it rolled and 
staggered only a few yards. Then it tipped upon its 
nose and the whirling propeller snapped as it struck 
earth. 

Before Hubert had time to do more than fumble at 
his straps, Diane was out of hers. She leaped from 
the fuselage and was running across the desert toward 
the camel-ringed fort. 

“Monte,—Monte/' she was calling. “Are you 
safe?" 

She felt a numbing blow in the back and pitched 
face downward in the sands. An instant only as she 
fell was she conscious of a bewildered surprise. 
Something had struck her. Something had hap¬ 
pened to her. Then all the world turned blood red, 
then black, and she struggled helplessly to arise. 
She lost consciousness. 

A few yards away, beside a fallen horse, a swarthy 
Moslem, shrouded in white, dropped his gun beside 
him. His eyes rolled heavenward, and he toppled to 
earth, after one wild, convulsive effort. “Allah-il 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


27 5 


Allah,” he choked, and died, just too late to feel the 
solid bulk of a furious Briton drop upon him, and 
hard, white hateful fingers clench his black throat, 
choking and shaking him in avenging fury. 


CHAPTER XVI 


There followed for the Mayfield an age of sleep and 
horrible dreams, of fevered thirst and wild delirium, a 
shadowy existence which was neither life nor death. 

It was filled with phantom shapes that came and 
departed, sometimes like ministering white angels, 
and again like black fiends, to probe and wrench the 
body of clay, wracked with pain, that hung like an 
enormous weight upon her spirit. She struggled to 
shake that body off, and to rise free and buoyant into 
a realm of music which was calling her, but the life 
stream flowing through her veins was too strong. 

So she awoke one morning, pale, weak, and wonder¬ 
ing at the light, in a clean and comfortable bed, sole 
furniture of a barren room which she remembered but 
dimly. Her eyes strayed dully about its bare walls. 
On one of them they encountered the chambers only 
ornament, a crucifix. She closed them, and slept 
awhile. 

Awake again, she began to remember. She had 
been a very sick woman, she knew. A bandage 
276 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


277 


gripped her shoulder, almost unbearably tight. She 
stirred, and a pain left her gasping and dizzy. She 
must try not to move. 

She recalled dropping to earth in an aeroplane with 
Hubert, and running toward the huddled camel train 
where Monte must be awaiting her. Then had come 
the blow, and delirium. She had been shot. She 
wondered if she were getting well. Then a spasm of 
fear clutched her heart. 

Had Monte been hurt? Was he still alive? 

She looked toward the headboard of her bed, with 
the hazy recollection that a button was hanging there 
upon a cord. When one pressed that button water 
arrived almost immediately to cool one’s parched 
tongue, even as rubbing a lamp might bring a genie. 
It was where she expected, and she pressed it. 

The effort tired her and she closed her eyes again. 
When she opened them, a man was standing beside 
her bed, a man of middle age, smooth shaven, with a 
seamed, grave, almost stern face, but kindly eyes. 
He was clad in a loose robe of creamy white, caught at 
the waist by a rope girdle, from which, upon one 
knotted end, there hung that same figure of Divine 
Sorrow which spoke its message of expiation for hu¬ 
man sins from her chamber wall. 

He was a priest. 

“Where am I?” asked the Mayfield. Then she 
tried to rise. “Is Monte well? Is he hurt? Is he 
here?” 


278 THE HEART OF SALOME 

A firm hand pressed her shoulder, and she sank 
back upon the pillows with a stifled sob of pain. She 
heard the priest answer: 

‘'All is well, my daughter. Only rest. Are you in 
need of any service ?" 

“Where am I?” 

“At the monastery of Chiraz, where you have lain 
for nearly a month, and where you will recover from 
your hurts if you only remain calm, and will help/' 

“Chiraz?" 

“An oasis in the desert, where none but our brother¬ 
hood and the roving heathen live within many miles, 
but a camel train arrived last night which will take 
you back soon to your friends." 

It was all so strange, this white robed monk, his 
soothing voice, and his talk of oases and camels. 
The Mayfield wondered whether he were part of her 
delirium. 

“But Monte," she insisted. “Mr. Carroll—or Mr. 
Starrett? Is there a man named Starrett here?" 

“There was a Mr. Mainwaring," replied the monk. 
“He went out of the desert after your animals. The 
animals are here, but he did not return with them. 
He left you a letter." 

“Give it to me, please. You have it here?" 

“Patience, my daughter." Stilling her protests, the 
priest withdrew a glass thermometer from his robe, 
shook it, and despite her rebellion inserted it beneath 
her tongue. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


279 

"A Mr. Mainwaringhe had said. The Mayfield 
closed her eyes once more and a chill certainty gripped 
her that Monte had been killed. He would have come 
with her, otherwise. He would have taken pity upon 
her, seeing her stricken there upon the burning desert 
sand which had been his battle-ground; wounded, 
perhaps killed, for her effort to save him. 

His old love for her surely would have triumphed 
then, if he lived. He never would have abandoned 
her. Yet it had not been he who had brought her to 
this monastery. It had been Hubert. 

Monte was dead; she was sure of it. She did not 
care now whether she got Hubert’s letter, or anything 
else. If Monte had died, she had been the one to 
bring him to his doom, and death would be sweet if 
it would take her too. 

From beneath one tight-shut eyelid a tear stole out, 
then another and another, coursing down her wan 
cheeks. 

The thermometer was withdrawn. “All is well,” 
said the calming voice above her. “You are weak, 
but you will get well, thanks to God,—and may it be 
pardoned me—to His servant, who was for many 
years a physician.” 

She sensed that he was departing, but she did not 
stir. A great grief possessed her, and she lay beaten 
beneath it, till sleep came once more to heal her. 

Waking anew, she remembered. She called for the 
letter, idly, achingly, wondering what might be in it. 


28 o 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


Phrases of kindness and consolation, probably, from 
a very gallant Englishman. 

Then she read. Her heart leaped to life once more. 
A great joy was joined to a great sorrow, turning even 
that sorrow sweet. Monte lived! She had lost him, 
but he lived! God was good! 


“Dear Diane/' read the note. “Don't worry 
about Carroll. He's lucky, and he's able as the devil 
at this desert game, even though I'll always consider 
him a damn fool, as you know. He brought us to 
the monastery and then pushed on. He and I spent 
one evening together, and we had a bit of a row, even 
though I'm going to marry his sister. He refused 
point-blank to talk about you, but I talked, consider¬ 
ably. The fracas ensued. 

“Don't mind him. As I write this you’ve spent 
ten days wrestling with death and winning. I knew 
you’d win. You’re too magnificent to be beaten by 
anything now. So I’ve gone out after a camel train, 
and will bring it back to take you home to Paris. 
Buck up, old girl. We’ll soon be sitting in front of 
the Cafe de la Paix with a couple of tall glasses in 
front of us, watching the crowds on the boulevards. 

“Your devoted servant, 

“Hubert." 


A deep well of affection for Main waring gushed 
within her, mingling with her happiness. But she 
forgot him in a minute, for her thoughts went all to 
Monte, the “able as the devil," pushing on into the 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


281 

desert upon his man’s errand, into what perils she 
knew not. He would win through them all. It was 
he, not she, who was too magnificent to be beaten. 
And he lived! 

The guilt of his blood had been lifted from her 
head. She had sinned against him grievously, she 
who had loved him, for her love had turned to hate. 
What madness! Through her dim, musing con¬ 
sciousness the sound of tinkling camel bells was 
wafted from beyond the walls of the monastery. 
They seemed to hint a tune, a subtle melody. The 
melody brought her an instant’s image of Galuppi, the 
painter, and she almost heard his voice: 

‘There is much of Salome in you.” 

She stirred uneasily. Galuppi had been right. 
Then came the vision of Djina Nuova, that other 
Salome, tortured by the love of the saint who flouted 
her, and dancing in her naked beauty before the de¬ 
generate Herod as the price for murder. 

“Dance for me, Salome.” She heard the senile 
ruler plead. 

She too had danced, a modern Salome, beseeching 
the death of that dear man for whom she yearned, no 
saint but a warrior, riding now unafraid in the desert, 
a warrior knight of the storied type who kept his 
honour as untarnished and gleaming bright as his 
sword, and who therefore scorned her. 

“Monte, Monte,” she whispered, as if he were close 


282 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


to her side and could hear her, “I love you, dear. 
I was insane when I tried to hurt you.” 

He lived! And to ease her longing for him she 
summoned up his vision, lying beside her, wrapped 
tightly in her arms, heart against beating heart, their 
lips united. But even as she whispered incoherent 
love words against her pillow, phrases of endearment 
to an imagined passionate lover, she heard once more 
that evil music. 

“Dance for me, Salome!” 

The echoes of her madness rang in her ears. She 
heard the singing of the violins in far-off Paris, 
through which the immortal soul of Strauss was tell¬ 
ing the age-old, ever-new story of love distorted into 
passion, the tragedy that had been Salome’s in Judaea, 
and later, hers. 

The tragedy of love that sprung from the very heart 
of God to ennoble and uplift his earthly children, to 
be a little part of Him residing in them; dragged 
down, and vilified, and caricatured by their warped 
desires. 

She shuddered, then resolutely locked a vision of 
flaming sweetness out of her heart. “I am Salome 
born again,” she sobbed. “And Monte is like John. 
He never will be mine.” 

Days passed. 

Bright desert noons penetrated to her cloistered 
chamber and set its dust-motes dancing in the sun. 
Days brought her healing, but little peace. And be- 


THE HEART OF SALOME 283 

tween them were the nights, long sleepless nights 
wherein she grieved, raged at the fate that had 
wrecked her youth, and lit pale tapers to sad memo¬ 
ries, to the little, fleeting moments of happiness she 
had known when she and Monte were younger, and 
their paths ran together. 

She worried. She was troubled because the camel 
train which was to take her out of the desert had 
arrived at the monastery now many days ago, and 
Hubert was not with it. Hubert had said he would 
return, and he had not. 

That brought to her battered nerves the menace of 
Sir Humphrey. She could see in Hubert's absence 
the sinister shadow of the financier, sitting in his 
Paris study but directing lawless men upon the desert. 
Woe to those unlucky men,—or women—who chanced 
to stand athwart the accomplishment of one of Sir 
Humphrey's schemes. Calmly, dispassionately, in¬ 
humanly, in his beautiful home he would read of their 
puny presence in a report from one of his emissaries. 
He would speak a few curt words to Critchlow, his 
secretary. Those words would fly across the skies or 
under the seas to the furthest corners of the earth. 
And those who opposed him would be brushed aside, 
—perhaps wiped out. 

She had no doubt that Humphrey knew her every 
move, and every motion of Hubert's, their share in 
saving Monte from the attack of his Touaregs. 
Saving him? How could she tell? Monte had in- 


284 the HEART OF SALOME 

sisted on plunging ahead with his mission despite 
attacks from natives, despite the warnings which 
Hubert must have given him, despite the fact that she 
who loved him had nearly died to save him. She had 
been in the monastery for weeks. She began to worry 
about him again. For all she knew, by now Sir 
Humphrey’s men had returned to their attack. 
Even now Monte might be lying dead in some far 
waste, his mangled body food for vultures. It was 
more than possible. It was probable. Magnifying 
these perils and fearing Sir Humphrey delayed her 
recovery. 

But the day came, one sultry morning in early 
summer, when the kindly monks were able to carry 
her out of doors. Two stout friars lifted her upon a 
stretcher, and bore her out to their courtyard, this 
strange, fragile and fragrant feminine guest whom 
chance had brought to share and to trouble their 
cloistered sanctuary. They left her alone with its 
beauty. 

Here was a cluster of stately palms to shade her, 
and beneath them was grass unbelievably green, 
about a desert spring of crystal water. Here the 
brotherhood had constructed a fountain; it was a 
pillar of liquid, iridescent diamonds—shot with golden 
light; a pillar that laughed and danced—and mur¬ 
mured little songs; a live thing, friendly to all who 
would linger by its side. 

This garden which the monastery completely en- 


THE HEART OF SALOME 285 

closed was in the midst of desolate sandy wastes 
which stretched in rolling waves about its baked- 
clay walls for miles, like a hot white ocean. 

The Mayfield cried out in sheer delight at seeing 
it, at being out-doors again, bathed by the radiant 
sun, beneath an azure sky. She had spent too long 
in pain within the four bare box-like walls of her 
dim chamber. 

“Oh, beautiful world!” 

She stretched out her arms to embrace it. Here was 
a place for reverie and dreams. She lay in languid 
comfort, musing. She was alone in the courtyard 
except for one robed figure which she could see across 
the fountain in front of the farther wall. She 
watched it moving back and forth, the hooded figure 
of a man in a brown robe, who walked with a differ¬ 
ent air from the slow tread of the white robed brother¬ 
hood. In his hands he held a measuring rod with 
which he was spacing and marking the barren wall. 
He paused from time to time to makes notes upon 
a small pad of paper. 

A lay workman, thought Diane, as she watched 
him. She wondered what change in the building he 
was going to make. Something about his ceaseless 
activity held her eyes upon him. It seemed so 
strange that a man should be hurrying here in the 
monastery where day merged into day like one long 
dream and time stood still. 

The man came striding across the courtyard to the 


286 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


fountain, and stood there watching it. His face was 
toward her. There was something familiar about him. 

Then she recognized him with amazement. 

“Henri,” she cried. 

A strangely altered Henri Bezanne, unnaturally 
white. His tangled mane and beard were gone. 
But his burning eyes were the same. Diane would 
have known them anywhere. 

“Henri,” she called. He started—gazed—and 
walked toward her slowly. She saw him recognize 
her. He darted forward and caught her outstretched 
hands in both of his. 

“Madame, —madame,-” He could speak no 

more. His eyes which had been alight with pleasure 
to see her there became dimmed with tears. He 
looked away. Then Diane understood. 

“My poor Henri,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.” 

He turned back to her and tried to smile bravely. 
“Maman is well and happy, Madame,—but I am 
alone.” 

Mrs. Mayfield recalled the woman bent with years 
of toil who had made the artist’s studio a little home, 
who had waited tenderly and proudly upon the 
bruised genius as if he were still a child, and who had 
pleaded with her on the darkened stairs,—“you will 
not hurt my son.” Deep sympathy for the artist 
swept her. Small wonder he was so changed. Yet 
Henri a monk? The pagan painter? She scarcely 
could believe it. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 287 

“So you have come here to live,” she breathed, in 
her amazement. 

‘To Chiraz! As better men than I have done 
before me/’ He seemed to sense what she was think¬ 
ing. “It is not strange, Madame/' he replied, 
though she had not voiced her thought. “It is not 
a far journey for one who worships Beauty to turn to 
the worship of Love. I have lost none of my old 
gods in finding them servants of a Greater. And I 
have found some peace and reason in a world which 
for years seemed anguished and sad." 

“That's fine, cher ami,” the Mayfield answered 
softly. She repressed an inner bitterness that would 
have made her cry out, “I wish I could." 

But the artist's keen eyes, now cleared from their 
storm, were exploring hers. Diane remembered how 
he had studied and understood her in the studio. 
“It is really very simple, Madame," he said. “You 
have been sick in mind and body. I could tell you 
how to be healed,—how I was healed,—if you would 
let me." 

“I wish you would." 

And the Mayfield listened, smiling now a little 
ironically within herself. She knew what method 
would be told her by a new and zealous convert. 
But she was fond of Henri. And it soothed all men 
to talk of themselves to women. 

She watched him. His hands were released from 
hers and he had folded them before him. He was 


288 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


telling the expected story, as it had come to him, a 
story common enough for centuries since children's 
minds have been moulded by women imbued with 
great faith in the Galilean. But the artist was telling 
it with a heart obviously on fire, eyes storming at a 
city beyond the clouds, beholding a woman who was 
dead and in her grave, yet alive and in close com¬ 
munion with him. 

“My mother was a holy woman as surely as any of 
the saints," he said. “And I held her in my arms 
when she died. ‘Henri/ she said to me, ‘your 
maman is only a poor unknowing peasant and you 
are a great genius. But you are afraid because I am 
going to die. I am not afraid, because by the grace 
of our dear Saviour I shall never die, though I leave 
you for awhile. But after a time, in God’s good time, 
1 shall be living quite near you to help you as long 
as you need me. 1 know, because I have prayed long 
and earnestly to the Blessed Virgin, and she has told 
me, just as she told me you would live when you 
were a little baby, often sick, and once so sick with 
fever that your breath flickered almost out, like a 
candle in the wind. 

“ ‘You were but skin and bones, Henri, and all your 
little ribs stuck out most pitifully, and you were so 
nearly taken from me then that you scarcely had 
strength to cry. I was afraid then. But I prayed 
hard to the Virgin, because somdhow she seemed nearer 
to me than God. She was a Mother, even as I, and had 


THE HEART OF SALOME 289 

brought forth a Son with pain. I recalled that to Her, 
Henri,—I was so terribly frightened,—even as one 
mother to another, and 1 swore to her that if She 
would go up to the high throne of her Son God, and 
plead with Him to save you, I would dedicate you to 
His service. And all that night as 1 held you close 
to my breast I prayed. In the morning you cried 
aloud, and the fever was leaving, and I knew She had 
heard me. Then in my joy I cried, just as you are 
crying now,—which is quite foolish because 1 am 
going to live after I leave you,—but I cried too, be¬ 
cause you too were going to live. 

“ 'I dedicated you to the service of Her Son, Henri, 
my little baby. But because 1 am only a poor, un¬ 
knowing paysanne, and you are a great genius, 1 
have somehow failed to bring you to serve Him. 
Though I have burned many candles, and prayed both 
night and day as you know, you were too strong for 
me. Perhaps I shall pay because 1 have failed, but 
the Blessed Virgin will know how 1 tried. 

“ ‘I tell you these things because now for some 
time I cannot be near you.—-I must—pass through the 
shadows,—is it not written? But afterward,—I shall 
be waiting for you, Henri, and we shall live together 
again. You will come, will you not, my son?’ 

“What could I say, Madame?—Nothing but ‘yes, 
maman / and kiss her white hair. I told her, ‘yes, 
maman / because she was worried over her promise to 
the Virgin, and all I could do was to promise her 


290 THE HEART OF SALOME 

masses, and candles burned for the repose of her soul. 
To everything she asked me I answered, ‘yes, 
maman! Why, Madame, I would have enlisted in 
the service of the Devil himself,—God save me,— 
had she asked it.—I loved her.—Do you know what 
it is to love?” 

“Yes,” whispered the Mayfield. Her mind leaped 
over the desert toward Monte. 

“I know she was happy when she died,” said the 
artist. “For at the very last she smiled to me and 
said, my wonderful baby boy/—and then she fell 
asleep. Suddenly I realized that the room was very 
cold, and that I was the only person there. 

“1 can't remember clearly the days that followed,— 
except that I cursed God,—and that her funeral was a 
maze of stupid lights and silly chants, and that I was 
reeling, hot and cold by turns. I heard the clods of 
earth drop, one by one,—heavily,—upon her decent 
box of painted wood in Pere Lachaise. Each spade¬ 
ful was a blow that made me cry with pain, till I 
rushed from the place and walked for hours, hard 
and fast through the city.—I was alone, and my 
maman had been taken from me. 

“I walked the Seine that night, and it was beauti¬ 
ful, when all the world was aching ugly. Dark and 
deep as the grave where maman had gone,—and un¬ 
derneath its surface were reflected the lights of the 
bridges, like slender lanterns of rose and emerald and 
gold, casting their rays far down to guide one, if he 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


291 


should leap into its mystery.—And I would have 
jumped, had not my maman called to me,—when 1 
was on the very parapet. 

“ 'You will come to me, will you not, my son?” 
I heard her voice. Then I was afraid, for 1 was on the 
brink of a great sin, which would have made her 
grieve even in heaven, and would have robbed me of 
all chance of ever seeing her again. ‘You will come 
to me, will you not, my son?’—I tell you I heard her 
call me.—Then I knew that the way to join her lay 
back through the city I had left, but where from 
there I did not know. 

“It was revealed to me. Old Father Benedict, 
who christened me, came to the city and told me of 
this monastery. It is very old, and some of the 
pictures painted in its walls are faded with time. He 
gave me the chance to renew them, and a place to hide 
myself in peace, where I could grope my way toward 
heaven, since that was her wish. And he gave me 
that whole blank wall over there, where I will paint 
one picture to the glory of the Virgin, and to the 
honour of one other of God’s angels who must cer¬ 
tainly sit quite near Her in the heavenly choir, 
whom I have known on earth.” 

“You will do it wonderfully, Henri,”' said the 
Mayfield. “And I will come back to the monastery 
some day to see it, if I may.” 

“Surely, Madame, I hope to make it something 

fine.” 


2 Q2 THE HEART OF SALOME 

"And have you found happiness in religion, cher 
ami?” 

"I am finding it,—little by little," the artist replied. 
"But now,—already,—I have learned a marvellous 
thing. That there is one Eternal Spirit in the air 
more great than Beauty! Greater far! For all the 
loveliness of earth which I have worshipped all my 
days is only one of Its myriad works.—It is the 
spirit of Love. I have not lost the riches that were 
mine in following Beauty as divine. 1 have gained 
more of them, rather, for I have traced them to their 
source. 1 think I have found their explanation and 
Creator in the infinite, almighty spirit of Love, 
which men call God." 


CHAPTER XVII 

The monastery bell struck softly. It roused the 
artist from a silent reverie. “I must go,” he said. 
“It is time to pray. I believe you could find peace 
as well as I.” 

He clasped her hand. 

The Mayfield watched him go and settled back 
upon her cot. She watched the empyrean sky and 
the crystal fountain. “Perhaps I could find it here,” 
she mused, “following Henri's path, from beauty up 
to Love! There is beauty and peace in this court¬ 
yard, and the world is far away.” 

* * * * * * * 

But suddenly her ears were almost shattered by the 
wildest uproar from beyond the monastery gates. 
There was the sound of rifles firing, of bells ringing, 
and horns blowing, wild voices raised in weird 
halloes, approaching from a distance ever nearer and 
nearer. 

It did not seem to disturb the white-robed friars 
293 


294 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


who were striding past her, hastening to answer their 
call to prayer. Diane sat erect. 

“What is that?” she asked of one who was pass¬ 
ing near her. He stopped, and his eyes followed her 
gesture toward the desert. 

“A caravan is coming in,” he replied. “When¬ 
ever a caravan approaches an encampment or settle¬ 
ment it makes the biggest noise it can,—an old 
custom,—to show that it does not approach by 
stealth, as it would if it were attacking.” 

“There's no stealth there,” laughed the Mayfield 
nervously. 

There was something frightening, startling, in that 
raucous din, swelling ever louder and closer. It was 
an impious invader. It was battering down the wall 
of silence and of safety which the desert raised in¬ 
visibly about her place of refuge against the strife 
and turmoil of the world. She was apprehensive of 
it. 

The clamour ceased. She breathed a sigh of relief. 

She speculated upon the caravan's business. Per¬ 
haps Hubert had arrived at last. Perhaps Monte! 
Ah! if he only had! Her heart leaped. Then 
another priest impersonally stood before her. 

“Madame,” he said, “there is a gentleman come 
from far away to see you. He asked me to bring 
you this note.” He handed her a thick white enve¬ 
lope, unsealed, unmarked. With nervous fingers 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


295 

she fumbled at the flap and drew forth a single small 
card. She read: 

Sir Humphrey Leinster. 

Her heart stopped beating a moment, then raced 
in panic. A feeling of faintness came over her. 

Sir Humphrey here? Here in the desert? She 
was so weary, so worn with suffering. How could 
she meet this foe of all her happiness, this man re¬ 
lentless to pursue and possess her? The financier 
had placed high value upon her to have travelled so 
far. But this was no conquest for her. It was 
battle. He seemed a giant ogre, which she as a little 
girl in some distant dream had teased from his slum¬ 
ber, so that now he had risen to rend and devour 
her. 

“Dance for me, Salome!" 

She trembled, feeling suddenly cold. What good 
were Henri's counsels now? And where was Henri's 
God? She was conscious that her mind and body 
lay benumbed, almost inert, helpless to foil Sir Hum¬ 
phrey by stratagem or strength. She wanted to lift 

up her voice and cry out, “No!-No!-1 will 

not see him." How useless that would be! Hum¬ 
phrey was not the man to be turned aside in his 
determined course by any woman's “No." 

She hated him. She despised him for his cold¬ 
blooded, callous greed, and for the wickedness of his 
intrigues. Yet she remembered that he could stir 


296 THE HEART OF SALOME 

strange feelings of affection within her, by revealing 
those other facets of his nature,—his love for music, 
his loneliness, his open admiration of her, and even 
his unconscious display of that Titan’s power which 
he so misused. She was afraid. 

Then it flashed across her like a sudden, brusque, 
icy wind, that he was not there in the desert pursuing 
only her. He must have known by his marvellous 
system of secret intelligence how Monte had beaten 
off his Touareg marauders; how Monte continued to 
defy him, and followed his quest for oil, the stakes 
of empire, undaunted and unswerved. 

Sir Humphrey must know now that Monte was an 
antagonist worthy of his steel, no pigmy opponent, 
to be flecked contemptuously aside. The financier 
had come to the desert not only on an errand of court¬ 
ship. He had come to fight, she was sure. He had 
come to wage merciless warfare on the man who not 
only challenged him in the field of industry, but who 
stood as a formidable obstacle in his path toward the 
woman he loved. 

She must rouse herself from her lethargy, shake 
off her wan desire for rest and sleep. She must fight 
for Monte though he was not hers, for she was his. 
And then a realization awoke within her that this 
was the love she was seeking, that guarded by this 
love she would find peace and joy, even in the midst 
of battle. 

This was the love she was learning under the rod 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


297 


of suffering; the love that gives without stint, not 
asking for reward; the love that finds its greatest joy 
in service. This was the love she was groping for, 
and finding, now that her lush, warm body was 
broken and white and subdued; the love that rejoices 
in being spent, and weak, if only the beloved may 
exult and be strong; a love that is no raging appetite, 
no longing to be sated, but a pure flame, sacrificial, 
burning calmly and eternally within the heart. 

“Dance for me, Salome!" 

Yes, she must dance,—and she must also fight. 
Before, she had danced for Herod. Now she must 
dance for another. The white-robed brother stood 
waiting. 

“I will see him," said the Mayfield, smiling up 
from her cushions. 

There was a moment’s calm in the courtyard. The 
fountain sang a cheerful, tinkling song. Then Sir 
Humphrey stood at her side. 

“My dear, dear friend," he said. 

The Mayfield reached up one fragile hand to be 
clasped in his great brown one. “Are you sure?" 
she asked, with a trace of mockery. Then she let 
her hand lie quiescent in his. She and Humphrey 
gazed long and studiously into each other’s eyes. 

“You are changed, Diane," said the man. “You 
have suffered." 

“While you are just as always, faithful suitor. 
Won't you sit down beside me?" 


298 THE HEART OF SALOME 

He found a stool nearby and pulled it close to her 
cot. Seated, he removed the white pith helmet which 
had shielded him from the desert’s scorching sun. 
The Mayfield experienced once more her involuntary 
liking for him, for his strong features and shaggy 
mane, and for the keen glint of his eyes. 

“I did not know you ever travelled so far,” she 
murmured, throwing down the gage of battle. 

'Tor you,” he replied. "For you alone.” He 
picked up the gauntlet, as she had known he would. 

''And that means?” 

"I have come to take you home, to Paris, not only 
because I love you, but because you need me.” 

“I’m sorry, Humphrey. But my answer is the 
same as always. I can’t go with you.” 

“Because you love Carroll.” 

“Yes.” She spoke her answer proudly, firmly. 

“That’s why you need me,” he replied gravely. 

She started. There was something sinister in the 
sureness of his statement, and in his tight-shut lips 
that now curved scornfully downward. His eyes 
were hard, and when she met them they seemed to be 
beating against her will, to break it. 

“You’re pitiless, and strong,” she accused him 
inwardly, pleading without voice for his iron will to 
soften. “What could you have meant by that?”— 
‘That’s why you need me?’ ”—He talked in riddles. 
That was why she did not need him. She loved 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


299 

another, and that love was sufficient to fill her life. 
He could have no further place in it. But he seemed 
so certain! A horrible fear engulfed her. 

“You’ve hurt him! You’ve killed him!” she 
cried. 

She lifted herself from her pillows, sat upright, 
with a force that did not spring from her weakened 
frame, but from the spirit within it. Her eyes shot 
fire in deadly enmity, raging against his, but the 
financier’s were inscrutable, unmoved, as always. 

“No,” he denied. “No—I assure you I have 
not hurt him. Any hurt that he has suffered he has 
brought upon himself. I have not killed him. But 
I believe he has killed himself,—as far as you are 
concerned,—though he still lives. It would be better 
for him perhaps if he were dead.—Lie back and rest. 
—There!” 

His two strong hands gripped her shoulders gently, 
forced her backward, till she lay prone once more, 
rebelling but helpless. 

She listened, while he spoke relentlessly, dis¬ 
passionately as if he were unaware of the storms he 
was arousing within her. His manner seemed to 
say that he was merely relating to her the facts which 
had been inscribed upon the book of their destinies, 
while she had lain unknowing and apart from the 
world, within this desert monastery. She would want 
to know them now. He was her one true friend, 
come to this far-off spot from his busy affairs to 


3 oo 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


help her, since she must pick up her broken life, must 
mend it, and make it anew. 

“Once/' he said, “I ordered Carroll's death. It 
was your wish. But when I learned how desperately 
you wanted him to live, I countermanded the order. 
1 knew I could not win you that way. I even 
went further, since you were not beside me, to tell 
me what you wished. I ordered him to be pro¬ 
tected. 1 made his life as safe on the lawless desert 
as in a Paris church. And that despite the fact that 
he was my opponent in business and in love. I did 
it for you, Diane. 

“Nevertheless we fought. You know how busi¬ 
ness is fought. And you know 1 always win. My 
expedition beat him to the desert oil reserve. And 
because I wanted Carroll for my own,—just as you 
wanted him, esteeming him highly,—I beat him in 
his home office. My agents in the Gulf induced 
old Redfern to throw him out, upon the basis of that 
old scandal which Redfern did not know; that Star- 
rett was Carroll, drummed out of a Boston club for 
cheating at cards. Old Redfern is a stickler for 
honesty in his men, and that’s another reason I will 
beat him, because I work with all men for what they 
may mean to me. 

“There’s nothing in the open warfare 1 have 
waged but what you will pardon me. But since you 
are one of the strong, as 1 am one of the strong, you 
will never pardon Carroll.’’ 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


3 01 


"I don’t have to pardon him,” cried the Mayfield. 

“No?” he inquired ironically. Then gravely: 
“He refused to pardon you. And you have pride, 
Diane. 1 doubt if you will pardon him.” 

“What do you mean,” the woman pleaded. The 
hints, the veiled suggestions in Sir Humphrey’s 
words, and the cold certainty of his tones were tor¬ 
ture to her. 

“I mean that when he was beaten, instead of fight¬ 
ing back, he lay down and cried. He took his beat¬ 
ing like a dog. He whined that he was ruined. 
Then he gave himself up to wild orgies, seeking 
oblivion with drugs and liquors, and with Sudanese 
girls for amusement in his tent.” 

“You lie!” 

Sir Humphrey smiled. “Oh, I don’t expect you 
to believe me, at first. But you may see for your¬ 
self. And then he heaped one crowning insult upon 
you. How long have you been in the monastery?” 

“Nearly two months.” 

“For the past five weeks he has been encamped 
within ten kilometres of here. Has he ever come to 
see you?” 

The Mayfield was silent. 

“You know he has not,” pursued the financier 
grimly, brutally. “He has never tried to thank you 
for offering your life to save him when he was in 
peril. He shows his gratitude by camping almost 
at your door with feminine companions of another 


3 02 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


colour. He tells you plainly he prefers them/' 

"Oh!” the Mayfield sobbed. "You lie! How un¬ 
speakably vile you are!” 

"I will visit his camp to-night. Will you come 
and see for yourself?” 

The palm trees above her seemed to be reeling, 
giddily; their background of blue sky seemed turned 
to saffron, then to red; some invisible hand was 
clutching at her throat and strangling her; she was 
breathless in her struggle to shake it off. She 
scarcely knew what she was doing, but she knew she 
must go to see Monte, to prove or disprove this 
terrible accusation against him, by which Sir Hum¬ 
phrey was torturing her. 

"Yes—Ell come,” she moaned. "Now go away, 
please,—a little while.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


That night the Mayfield walked and dressed for the 
first time since she was wounded. She walked with 
trembling, shaking steps, leaning on Sir Humphrey’s 
arm, from her chamber to the monastery gate and 
out upon the sands. Despite the protests of her 
doctor-priest, she was ready and determined to ride. 

She would not,—could not believe what the 
financier had said. And yet Sir Humphrey always 
knew. Sir Humphrey always won. She walked in 
a daze, in an agony of spirit beside which all the 
bodily pain she had suffered seemed as nothing. 

The desert before the monastery gleamed reddish 
white by the light of a dozen resinous torches, held 
aloft by burnous-clad natives. By the wavering glow 
Diane could see with how great a host the uncrowned 
king of European industry had surrounded himself 
for his African journey; a small army of men and 
horses and camels, now moving with shouts and 
seeming confusion in preparation for the march. 

She watched them align in serried ranks, swart 
303 




THE HEART OF SALOME 


304 

Touaregs, mantled in flowing djellabas, perched aloft 
on ambling, long-limbed mehari, a company that 
trailed its rear far out into the darkness beyond the 
flare of the torches. At their head was a mongrel 
bodyguard for Sir Humphrey, half white, half tan, 
in tattered pale-blue tunics which once had served a 
nobler cause, who pranced into line on hard-bitten, 
rough riding desert ponies. And moving about them 
all in swooping circles were the great man's 
subalterns, ex-officers, gentlemen adventurers, smartly 
uniformed, mounted on full-blooded steeds that 
reared and curvetted and fretted to be off. Here 
was a formidable band of cut-throats, armed to the 
teeth, ready to move with military precision and 
fight to the death at a nod from their leader s head, 
a gesture from his hand. 

An Arab brought up the Mayfield's horse, a big¬ 
boned English mare. She mounted, cross saddle, 
and the effort cost her so dearly that she ordered her¬ 
self strapped to her mount. She had not real¬ 
ized she was so weak, for all her violent illness. 
Her white teeth sunk deep into her lips. 

"I will—I will—1 will," she repeated inwardly, 
to keep herself going. 

Sir Humphrey mounted beside her. Her straps 
were adjusted; the reins were in her hand. She and 
her escort moved over together into the van of the 
cavalcade. Close by, the last commands were 
shouted. 


THE HEART OF SALOME 305 

Then suddenly the lights were gone to rearward. 
Silence ensued. The monastery had vanished. 
Diane was riding in rhythmic unison with her horse, 
through darkness, across a vast and empty desert. 

It was an inky black, unfathomable night, with 
never a star for guide, but Sir Humphrey’s men rode 
swiftly and surely. They were led by a Bedouin 
guide who knew the arid plain by the very feeling 
of it beneath the beating hoofs of his horse; who 
took his bearings by the scudding clouds of ghostly 
grey, weighted with sharp and spiteful particles of 
sand that whirled about his head, and by messages 
from intimate, familiar winds upon his upraised, 
moistened finger. 

They rode in silence and in absolute darkness. No 
flaring torch served to light them and betray their 
presence. The only noises that came to the May- 
field’s ears were sibilant breathings from the unreal, 
dream-like phantoms riding near her, the creak of 
straining leather girths, the occasional rattle of mili¬ 
tary accoutrements, lashed to the straining sides of 
horse or mehari, but ready for instant action. 

At first she had to conquer the aches of her battered 
body. Then she became accustomed to the jarring 
pace, and to the animal beneath her knees. Her 
head, which had reeled in dizziness at first, became 
clear. There was a fresh wind in her face. She 
liked it, and she loved to ride. She could think. 

Sir Humphrey had held before her eyes a crazed 


306 THE HEART OF SALOME 

and unbelievable picture of the Monte Carroll she 
was going to see; a picture sent him by his spies, 
infesting Monte’s camp. It showed that tall, strong 
hero of her dreams a broken pigmy; it told her that 
the dark ascetic who had scorned her loveliness was 
turned promiscuous rake; it held him up to laughter 
and contempt; a poor, weak creature who had held 
his head up high when winning, but who whined 
when beaten and sought oblivion in the most sordid 
vice. 

Diane laughed nervously at the impossibility of it. 

Then she turned her head to where Sir Humphrey 
rode beside her, upright and strong in his saddle, the 
brain and dominating will of all this shadowy com¬ 
pany. Sir Humphrey was sure. The woman felt a 
moment’s panic, then gripped for self-command. 

How could it be true? It could not! Yet she was 
riding toward the proof, said Humphrey. She must 
be ready to deny the proof was anything but false, 
deny it even if she saw. And if she saw?' 

Ah! She caught her breath with a sharp intake. 
If she did learn that Monte, far from being the stern 
Puritan of her imaginings, was in reality only as 
other men; that he was no rare saint, but the usual 
sinner, and she no scorned, tragic Salome, but just 
another foolish woman who had let herself be de¬ 
luded into believing a man could be virtuous! 

She flamed with hot rage and mortification. She 
laughed herself to scorn. Why, of course that was 


THE HEART OF SALOME 307 

it. Humphrey was always sure. Humphrey was 
always right. He knew that Monte had insulted her. 
It must have amazed him that she still loved. It 
amazed her, now. 

Men were all alike. Her lips writhed toward a 
determined smile while her long dark lashes fought 
with tears. She was on the border of hysteria. 
Another illusion swept away! How Monte had de¬ 
luded her, with the memories of their youth for his 
ally! She raged at herself for having been such a 
simpleton. She, the Mayfield, woman of the 
world,—she would have staked her life on Monte’s 
being “different.” 

And in her ears there echoed her own amused, 
compassionate counsel to a pretty little girl-bride she 
knew, who in the sanctuary of her boudoir had sobbed 
into her breast the tragedy of discovering her hus¬ 
band’s past amours. 

“My dear, you mustn’t expect to catch a virgin.” 

Yet that was what she had expected. That firm 
belief had been the one sure article of her faith, in 
the whirling maelstrom of a pleasure-loving world 
run dissolute. 

“What difference does it make?” 

She must regain her poise. She was no innocent 
debutante. How absurd of Humphrey to have come 
all this way to tell her this banality. She glanced 
over at his upright stature, that image of strength, of 
power, of shrewd domineering will. And then she 


308 THE HEART OF SALOME 

thought of the Monte she was to see, the broken, 
weak, and soiled. The contrast turned her cold. 

“You are right,” she addressed him, mentally. 
“Perhaps a better woman would forgive. Perhaps 
a nobler love than mine would stop and lift Monte 
up. But Monte fallen from his high estate is another 
man than the one I loved. Monte fallen is Monte 
dead,—dead to me.” 

Her mind flashed back to the spectacle of that 
hideous executioner, descending into a dungeon on 
the vine-hung Galilean terrace, and bringing up to 
the tortured Salome the severed head of a dead man 
who had been a living saint. The saint was dead. 
She shivered in disgust. 

And Monte too was dead, since the one thing 
living in him which set him apart from all other men 
had been slain. 

The Mayfield on her desert ride looked far within 
herself, and caught a glimpse of the very heart of 
Salome. 

This was the heart and soul of Salome, the 
daughter of Herodias: 

(And this is the heart of all the myriad modern 
Salomes who walk with pride in their velvet skins, 
their scented flesh, and their round, white limbs, 
tending their charms, anointing them, offering up 
incense before them, living votive lives for them, like 
carnal priestesses kneeling before rotting altars:) 

To know their own fleeting beauty for the greatest 


THE HEART OF SALOME 309 

good, for an omnipotent god of conquest, and by its 
power to rule over man; 

To rule over docile, foolish men, all men but few. 
To be secretly scornful of men for their weakness, 
but to use them, cajole them, pretend to serve them, 
and obtain from them all the decorations, all the 
pomp and ostentation, all the rich ceremonies which 
a jealous god demands; 

To tremble a little, and to fear, at the thought of 
men like John, to feel abased, insulted, their very 
god outraged and angry, when The Baptist’s eyes 
turn from them to some other vision. 

To recognize in rare, strong men like this a 
challenge, and to love them. 

Love them? Perverse Salomes! To love only 
them,—since all the others, easily brought to heel, 
must always suffer something of contempt. To be 
consumed with hot desire for them, sensing by 
feminine instinct all that centuries of men have 
learned, into what utterly satiate peace the troubled 
longings of voluptuous flesh may be whipped, be¬ 
neath the scourgings of a first, strong passion. 

Salome’s spirit, working within the worldly Mrs. 
Mayfield told her that shrewd Sir Humphrey had 
seen aright. Monte corrupted was dead to her, for 
love, merely another dupe to play upon. 

Their caravan had halted. A circle of wraith-like 
figures grouped about Sir Humphrey. They dashed 
off, one by one, on their varying errands. The little 


3io 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


knot of horsemen about the Mayfield remained 
motionless, but she could hear deep-throated, 
guttural commands, and then the padding splay feet 
of the camel-men’s mounts swung into motion once 
more and departing, far out to the right,—far out to 
the left. 

They must be near Monte’s camp. What 
manoeuvre was this? It came to her that the Titan’s 
band was encircling the camp which Carroll held. 
Another voice than Salome’s spoke within her, pro¬ 
tective woman’s, that of a woman struggling yet for 
faith. They must not hurt him. 

“Humphrey,” she called. 

The financier side-stepped his mount closer to her 
side, and leaned to hear her. 

“What are we doing?” she asked. “You’re not 
—you’re not going to attack him?—You’re not go¬ 
ing to do him more harm.” 

“Of course not, Diane. I tell you I would not 
harm a hair of his head. Would I ruin myself in 
your eyes? But my men surround his camp, as a 
precaution.” 

“But why?” 

“Because I must be prepared for any eventuality.” 
His voice held the reasoning gentleness of an adult, 
soothing a captious child. “You and I will walk 
unarmed and alone into his camp,—as his guests.” 

“Does he know you are coming?” 

Sir Humphrey laughed grimly. “Hardly. He 


THE HEART OF SALOME 311 

doesn't know much of anything. But the men in 
his camp know." 

Out of the night came the Bedouin guide, with 
another purple figure riding beside him. The new¬ 
comer advanced till his horse's nose was at the May- 
field's hip, between her and Sir Humphrey. 

“Evening, folks," came his jaunty voice. “Why, 
if it isn't Mrs. Mayfield. Bon soir, Madame.” 

The Mayfield recoiled. It was “Plug" Malone, 
Sir Humphrey's most execrable henchman, risen out 
of the desert, no doubt from Monte's camp. There 
was villainy here, and Monte was its victim. 

“How goes your friend?" asked the financier. 

“Stewed as a turtle," chuckled Malone. “With a 
cute little Sudanese chicken named Vannah to sing 
him lullabies." 

“How long has this been going on?" inquired Sir 
Humphrey. The woman caught the note of cold 
contempt in his voice. Her heart sank. 

“He went crazy when Redfern’s man brought the 
word he was fired," answered the spy. “Started to 
drink all the medical supplies. Then when he found 
you'd beaten him to oil that finished him. Want to 
come look-see?" 

Sir Humphrey's horse stepped forward, and his 
henchman wheeled to be at his side. They stopped 
and talked in low tones, while the Mayfield watched 
them, her soul in frantic rebellion. 

Malone had been set as a spy in Monte’s camp. 


312, THE HEART OF SALOME 

Had that been all? Sir Humphrey swore he had 
ordered Carroll protected. Malone was no protector, 
but a tool for secret villainies. If Monte really had 
been brought down, if really he were what they said, 
there had been incredible, desperate wickedness in 
those about him. Through the Mayfield’s brain 
there raced wild stories she had heard of drugs, 
applied by Orientals, secretly in food and drink, 
such herbs and potions as set men mad, drove them 
insane and bestial, odd tales for laughter, told in 
Paris salons, of wilful countesses and failing lovers, 
that had moved her to nausea. 

And suddenly, like a blow in the face, conviction 
struck her. Sir Humphrey lied when he told her 
Monte had wrecked himself. He had sent Malone 
to wreck him and the wretched deed was done. 

Humphrey had known he could not win her while 
Monte remained her ideal. He could not win by 
killing his foe. One thing only had been left to him, 
to wreck that ideal and change it to loathing. With 
that unscrupulous, devilish determination which had 
lifted him through so many intrigues and wars, over 
so many dead men’s agonies, to untold riches, he had 
wrought his rival’s ruin,—through Malone. 

She did not doubt he had succeeded. Sir Hum¬ 
phrey always succeeded. He was taking her now 
to see his triumph and to crown it. The financier 
had turned his horse, and was at her side. 

“I am sorry, Diane,” he said quietly, solicitously, 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


313 

"but if you’d never learned what a rotter he is, at 
heart, you always would have loved him.” 

His words capped her conviction. It was true. 

"It’s not true,” she stammered, fighting him 
weakly, denying still. 

"Will you come into the camp?” asked her tor¬ 
mentor, coldly imperturbable. 

"Yes—I’ll come.” 

She stifled a cry of heart-break. If Sir Humphrey 
had ruined Monte, she shared the guilt. It was she 
who had betrayed him, by her tortured avowals of 
love and hate. She had even besought his ruin. 

"All set?” asked Malone, riding up. 

“En avant!” 

The trio moved forward together, at a sharp trot, 
leaving the company behind them. Face to face with 
viewing so sad a havoc, the wreck of that strong man 
whom she had loved, and ruined, Diane was terrified. 

"It can’t be true—it must not be,” she breathed 
between clenched teeth. She would have hung back, 
if she could, dreading the proof. But Sir Hum¬ 
phrey’s certainty benumbed her. She rode forward 
helplessly. 

Then piercing the blackness she saw the flickering 
of a fire, his bivouac. Soon she would know, and 
she steeled herself. A huddle of tents took shape in 
their path, and they pulled their mounts to a walk. 
A sentry rose almost from beneath their feet, but 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


3H 

Malone tossed him a word and they passed. They 
were within the camp before the spy laid a restrain¬ 
ing hand upon Mrs. Mayfield’s elbow and they came 
to a stop. 

No lights save in one tent. But from that tent 
there came a sound at which the Mayfield’s tears 
began to drop. She did not try to stem them. 

So Sir Humphrey had won! 

A barbarous, rhythmic measure was being beaten 
within the tent on a taut-stringed tom-tom drum. 
Above it soared like the plaintive wail of a soul in 
the agony of naked want and mad desire, a weird and 
minor melody blown through a flute to accompany a 
woman’s voice. This woman was singing gently, 
softly, a series of Arab verses, so fraught with one 
universal passion that their import could not be mis¬ 
taken. 

Diane fumbled frantically at the straps which held 
her to her horse. She loosed a restraining buckle 
and leaped to the ground, reeling as much from 
wretchedness as weakness. Her companions were at 
her side. 

“Stay here,” she commanded them fiercely. 

She ran forward unsteadily to the entrance of the 
tent, while the beating iteration of the drum was 
hammering staggering blows at her heart, and the 
wails of the flute and woman’s voice were rasping, 
torturing every hot nerve within her throbbing 
temples. 


3i5 


THE HEART OF SALOME 

“Monte—Monte/' she sobbed. 

She stood in the door of the tent. 

The wavering, greenish flame from a single brazier 
was all that lit the scene. But it served. It cast 
strange shadows on the draped tent-walls that 
shifted, billowing in the fresh night breeze, and across 
the forms of four persons whom Diane would be 
many years forgetting. 

Directly in front of her, across a stretch of multi¬ 
coloured rugs that carpeted the desert sand was the 
man she loved. He was lying upon a rug-decked 
cot, close to the floor, beside a tiny tabouret that held 
all the paraphernalia for a prolonged drinking bout. 
His head, supported on one hand, was nodding. 
He seemed almost asleep. His face, which had been 
bronzed by years of rugged out-door life now seemed 
in the sickening brazier-flare an unhealthy, evil white. 

At his feet squatted the two native musicians whom 
the Mayfield had heard from without. They were 
swathed in their mantles, bowed to their rythmic task, 
beating and wailing the melody of the damned. 
And before the outstretched figure of the nodding 
Carroll, knelt and swayed in sinuous, rolling measure 
the brown-skinned Vannah, the desert beauty for 
men’s delight, while she sang her song of seduction. 
Her long arms slowly waved and writhed, like 
languid, sleepy snakes, charmed by the music, and 
charming in their turn the man they must soon en¬ 
fold and poison. 


3i6 THE HEART OF SALOME 

The Mayfield walked slowly forward, without 
volition, impelled by an inner force. She no longer 
was sure what she did. She stood close back of 
the dancing girl, and looked at Monte over those 
undulant arms. 

A shadow seemed to cross his face. He knitted 
his brows, and looked up. He saw her. His eyes 
seemed glazed, but filled with a queer light which 
puzzled her. 

“H’lo, Diane,” he muttered. “Where’s your 
friend, Humphrey?” 

Then the arm that supported his head collapsed, 
and his head dropped on the rug-draped cot. 

The Mayfield’s heart dropped with it. “I believe 
I am dying,” she told herself, feeling the room begin 
to whirl. “I hope I do.” A hand at her elbow 
steadied her, and she heard Sir Humphrey’s voice 
in'her ear. 

“May I take you home, Diane?” 

Fury gripped her. Her head cleared. She 
whirled to face him. “Not now, nor ever,” she 
panted, recoiling from him. “Not now nor ever! 
I despise—1 abhor—I loathe you!” 

Then she fell, covered her eyes with her hand and 
wept. 

“Cover him, ‘Plug,’ ” she heard a familiar voice 
cry out, and looked up, dazed and wondering. 

The man she loved who had been lying on the cot, 
seemingly prone in a stupor, was hurtling through 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


317 

the air, as she had seen him do years before in a 
crowded stadium, with thousands cheering to watch 
him bringing down a football foe. And Malone was 
looking on, grinning! 

The financier was toppled beneath his onrush, but 
Carroll rose to his feet, clutching his shaken an¬ 
tagonist by the collar at his throat, shaking him in 
deadly wrath. Sir Humphrey’s face turned livid. 

'‘Monte!” screamed Diane. 

Carroll stepped back. “Frisk him, Malone,” he 
commanded sharply. 

A small, black object was in the shaken financier’s 
hand. He was raising it toward his lips when Malone 
reached forward and snatched it from his grasp. 
He tossed it almost in the Mayfield’s lap. It was a 
whistle to summon rescuers. 

“Traitor,” snarled the overthrown Titan. He' 
struggled to his feet. Malone was covering him now, 
with a pistol. The king of industry turned white, 
but his clenched fists showed it was anger and not 
fear. 

His voice when he spoke was calm and level, and 
deadly with venom. “It is my practice to make 
traitors regret the day they were born,” he said 
evenly. 

Before the power in his gaze Malone’s gaze shifted 
a second, but he did not lower his weapon. “He’s 
my old army skipper,” he muttered. 

The Mayfield laughed to herself. Now she remem- 


318 THE HEART OF SALOME 

bered that Monte’s sister had told her that, when she 
was dancing with Malone so long ago at Claridge’s. 

“You should have known your man better, Sir 
Humphrey,” cut in the cool voice of Carroll. “He 
was rigger for my plane at Chateau Thierry. He 
wouldn’t betray me. Nor anyone else, now. 
There’s one good he-man spot in everyone. Malone’s 
my buddy.” 

“You are crowing,” observed Sir Humphrey sar¬ 
donically. “But it’s a trifle early.” 

“Because your men have me trapped?” asked 
Carroll. “I know. But I’ve got you. Sit down. 
—Sit down, I say.” 

Diane watched and listened. In her heart there 
flamed anew the joy of faith. She should have 
known! Ah! She should have known! And she 
had doubted him. He was in such hideous peril. 
But every accent of his loved voice was telling her 
he would win through. She exulted, hysterically, 
between inner laughter and tears. This man of hers 
was strong! Of hers? She trembled with the echo 
of an old grief in her ears. But all her desires were 
dormant. Salome slept, perhaps had died. Died in 
that moment of pity when she had seen him and 
believed him beaten and helpless. She was a woman 
transfigured by love. 

“And in my pocket,” the even voice of Monte was 
saying, “when I return to civilization are the proofs 
of your intrigue with the foes of France. It will take 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


319 

more than all your influence to keep you from a firing 
squad if I use them properly/' 

"They are your death warrant/' smiled Sir Hum¬ 
phrey, taking a cigarette from his case and light¬ 
ing it. 

"1 think not," Monte demurred, "though I'll let 
you go to your men in a few minutes." 

"Ah! Don't," warned Diane, crying out sharply. 

"You tried to do worse than kill me with your 
drugs," Monte pursued, without a variation in his 
tone. "Perhaps 1 ought to kill you for that. But 
we don’t get rid of our enemies that way,—any more, 
—across the ocean." 

On the distant night wind was blown to their ears 
the silver call of a bugle. The sharp bark of a rifle 
shot answered it, nearer them. 

"What’s that?" asked the Mayfield, apprehen¬ 
sively. 

"Kick him out, Malone," laughed Monte to his 
man. "He'll never hurt us now." He turned to the 
Mayfield. "That's Hubert," he answered, grinning 
broadly. "Good old Hubert, riding to join us with 
two companies of blessed French colonials. We've 
trapped the trapper." 

They were alone together. Monte looked down to 
where Diane sat upon the oriental carpeting of his 
tent. The woman, looking up into his eyes, saw 
something in them that made her tremble, that sud- 


320 


THE HEART OF SALOME 


denly blinded her, with a vision of what terrible 
splendours this world can hold. 

He lifted her up, and a great joy bubbled up within 
her like the crystal fountain in Chiraz, and like it 
laughed and sang and danced in the sunlight of her 
heart; tremulous, more wonderful than jewels, more 
bright than gold. 

There was a rattle of musketry out in the night, and 
he started. She clasped him tightly, frantic at the 
dangers into which she knew he would go. 

“I must go out to lead my men, Diane/' she heard 
him say. “Before I go will you tell me you forgive 
me?" 

She lifted her head, and his arms drew her closer, 
—closer. 

“I love you," she whispered, while their eyes met 
and clung,—and then their lips. 


THE END 


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